ye!  An’ there was Dick Lynch.  Dick ups an’ crosses the skipper in the store, an’ gets his head broke.  Nex’, he raises a mutiny agin the skipper an’ slips his knife into a mate.  Nex’, he fills himself up wid rum an’ sets out wid his swilin’-gun to blow the skipper’s head away!  An’ where bes Dick Lynch this minute?  Aye, where bes he!  Tell me that, if ye kin—­I don’t know, an’ ye don’t know, an’ the skipper himself don’t know.  But the saints knows!—­or maybe it bes the divil himself could tell ye!  Anyhow, all the luck o’ this harbor bes wid the skipper an’ wid them as stands true wid him.  Aye, ye kin lay to that!  His enemies blink out like a spark floatin’ up in the air.  B’ys, stick wid the skipper!  He feeds ye like marchants.  Already every man o’ ye has more gold stored away nor ye ever see afore in all yer life, an’ come spring the skipper’ll be freightin’ yer jewels, an’ the cargo out o’ the last wrack, north to St. John’s, an’ sellin’ ’em for ye.  Would ye have salved ’em widout the skipper?  No.  Would ye be able for to freight ’em to St. John’s widout himself an’ his fore-an’-after?  No.  An’ neither would ye be able to sell ’em even if ye could freight ’em!  Stand true to Black Dennis Nolan, b’ys, an’ ye’ll all be fat an’ rich as marchants, wid never the need to wet a line at the fishin’.”

Dick Lynch had gone away drunk; but not so drunk as to have forgotten to take food and a blanket with him, and to stow away on his person his share of the gold from the Durham Castle.  His inflamed mind must have held a doubt as to the certainty of meeting and disposing of the skipper.

After the long spell of fine weather another “flurry” swirled out of the west, and sent the men of Chance Along into their cabins, to eat and drink and spin yarns and keep the fires roaring in the little, round stoves and blackened chimneys.  Throughout the first day of storm the skipper sat by the stove in his kitchen, talking pleasantly enough to Mother Nolan and Cormick, figuring on the plans for the church which Father McQueen had left with him, but with never a question about Flora Lockhart.  He was something of a dissembler, was the skipper—­when his blood was cool.  Mother Nolan spoke once of the girl, saying that the loneliness of Chance Along was eating her poor heart; but the skipper gave no heed to it.  On the morning of the second day of the storm, after Mother Nolan had carried tea, bacon and toast to the singer and was eating her own breakfast with her grandsons, the inner door opened and Flora herself entered the kitchen.  The three looked up at her in amazement.  The skipper was the first to lower his eyes.

“Good mornin’ to ye,” he said, and went on with his breakfast.

“Oh, I am so dull and lonely,” exclaimed the girl.  “This terrible storm frightens me.  Why must I stay in that dreary room all by myself?”

“Ye be welcome to the entire house, ye poor dear,” said Mother Nolan.  “But has ye et yer breakfast?”