He raised himself higher in his hammock.

“A stowaway?  What fun!  And what made ye go?  Were ye up to some kind of diversion at home, and had to come out of it, eh?  Or were ye bored to extinction, or what? (Country life in England is mighty dull, so they tell me.) I suppose it was French leave that ye took, as ye say you’re a stowaway?  I’m asking ye a heap of impertinent questions, bad manners to me!”

Which was true.  But he asked them so kindly and eagerly, I could only feel that sympathy is a very pleasant thing, even when it takes the form of a catechism that is all questions, and no room for the answers.  Moreover, I suspect that he rattled on partly to give me time to leave off blushing and feel at ease with him.

“I ran away because of several things,” said I.

“I always did want to see the world”—­("And why wouldn’t ye?” my new friend hastily interpolated).  “But even if I had stayed at home I don’t believe I should ever have got to like being a lawyer”—­("Small chance of it, I should say, the quill-driving thievery!”) “It was my uncle’s office”—­("I ask his pardon and yours.”) “Oh, you may say what you like.  I never could get on with him.  I don’t mean that he was cruel to me in the least, though I think he behaved shabbily—­”

“Faith, it’s a way they have!  I’ve an uncle myself that’s a sort of first cousin of my father’s, and six foot three in his stockings, without a drop of good-nature in the full length of him.”

“Where is your home?” said I, for it certainly was my turn to ask questions.

“Where would it be but ould Ireland?” And after a moment’s pause he added, “They call me Dennis O’Moore.  What’s your name, ye enterprising little stowaway?”

I told him.  “And where were you going in your boat, and how did you get upset?” I asked.

He sighed.  “It was the old hooker we started in, bad luck to her!”

“Is that the name of the boat you were holding on to?”

“That boat?  No!  We borrowed her—­and now ye remind me, I wouldn’t be surprised if Tim Brady was missing her by this, for I had no leisure to ask his leave at the time, and, as a rule, we take our own coracle in the hooker—­”

“What is a hooker?” I interrupted, for I was resolved to know.

“What’s a hooker?  A hooker—­what a catechetical little chatterbox ye are!  A man can’t get a word in edgeways—­a hooker’s a boat.  Ours was a twenty-ton, half-decked, cutter-rigged sort of thing, built for nothing in particular, and always used for everything.  It was lucky for me we took Tim Brady’s boat instead of the coracle, or I’d be now where—­where poor Barney is.  Oh, Barney, Barney!  How’ll I ever get over it?  Why did ye never learn to swim, so fond of the water as ye were?  Why couldn’t ye hold on to me when I got a good grip of ye!  Barney, dear, I’ve a notion in my heart that ye left your hold on purpose, and threw away your own