Priscilla's Spies Part 23

They ate them, as they had eaten the others the day before, in their fingers, straight out of the tin with greedy rapture. Five half peaches, nearly all the juice, and a large chunk of bread, were given to Jimmy Kinsella, who carried them off and devoured them in privacy behind his boat.

"Tomorrow," said Priscilla, "we'll have another go at the spies. They're desperately afraid of us. I could see that when they were escaping across Finilaun harbour."

"By the expression of their faces?" said Miss Rutherford.

"Not exactly. It was more the way they were going on. Sylvia Courtney was once learning off a poem called 'The Ancient Mariner.' That was when she was going in for the prize in English literature. She and I sleep in the same room and she used to say a few verses of it every night while we were doing our hairs. I never thought any of it would come in useful to me, but it has; which just shows that one never ought to waste anything. The bit I mean was about a man who walked along a road at night in fear and dread. He used to look round and then turn no more his head, because he knew a frightful fiend did close behind him tread.

That's exactly what those two spies did today when they were sailing across Finilaun; so you see poetry is some use after all. I used to think it wasn't; but it is. It's frightfully silly to make up your mind that anything in the world is no use. You never can tell until you've tried and that may not be for years."

"The spies," said Miss Rutherford, "are, I suppose, encamped somewhere on the far side of Finilaun harbour."

"On Curraunbeg," said Prisdlla. "I saw the tents."

"I may be going in that direction myself tomorrow," said Miss Rutherford.

Priscilla got up and stepped across to the place where Frank was sitting. She stooped down and whispered to him. Then she returned to her own seat and winked at him, keeping her left eye closed for nearly half a minute, and s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up the corresponding corner of her mouth.

"We hope," said Frank, "that you'll join us at luncheon tomorrow wherever we may meet. It's our turn to bring the grub."

"With the greatest pleasure," said Miss Rutherford. "Shall I bring the stove?"

"I didn't like to invite you," said Priscilla, "until I found out whether Frank had any money to buy things with. As it turns out he has lots. I haven't. That's the reason I whispered to him, although I know it's rude to whisper when there's any one else there. Of course, I may be able to collar a few things out of the house; but I may not. With that Secretary of War staying in the house there is bound to be a lot of food lying about which n.o.body would notice much if it was gone. But then it's not easy to get it unless you happen not to be allowed in to dinner, which may be the case. If I'm not?Frank, I'm afraid, is sure to be on account of his having a dress coat?but if I'm not, which is what may happen if Aunt Juliet thinks it would score off me not to, then I can get lots of things without difficulty because the cook can't possibly tell whether they've been finished up in the dining-room or not."

"We'll hope for the best," said Miss Rutherford. "A jelly now or a few meringues would certainly be a pleasant variety after the tinned and dried provisions of the last two days."

The peppermint creams were finished before the second brew of soup came to the boil on the Primus stove. Priscilla poured it out It was hot, of about the consistency usual in soup, and it smelt savoury. Nevertheless Miss Rutherford, after watching for an opportunity to do so unseen, poured hers out on the ground. Frank fingered his mug irresolutely and once took a sip. Priscilla, after looking at her share intently, carried it off and gave it to Jimmy Kinsella.

"It's curious," she said when she came back, "but I don't feel nearly so keen on soup as I did. I daresay it's the peaches and the peppermint creams. I used to think it was rather rot putting off the sweets at dinner until after the meaty things. Now, I know it isn't. Sometimes there's really a lot of sense in an arrangement which seems silly at first, which is one of the things which always makes me say that grownup people aren't such fools as you might suppose if you didn't really know."

"We'll remember that at lunch tomorrow," said Miss Rutherford.

No one mentioned worms.

For the second time the weather, generally malign and irresponsible, favoured Priscilla. With the rising tide a light westerly breeze sprang up. She hoisted the sails and sat in the stern of the boat with an oar.

She tucked the middle of it under her armpit, pressed her side tight against the gunwale, and with the blade trailing in the water steadied the _Tortoise_ on her course. There is a short cut back to Rosnacree quay from the bay in which Miss Rutherford was left. It winds among a perfect maze of rocks, half covered or bare at low water, gradually becoming invisible as the tide rises. Priscilla, whose self-confidence was unshaken by her disaster in Craggeen pa.s.sage, took this short cut in spite of a half-hearted protest from Frank. "I don't exactly know the way," she said, "but now that we've lost the rudder there's nothing very much can happen to us. We can keep the centreboard up as we're running, and if we do go on a rock, the tide will lift us off again. It's rising now. Besides, it saves us miles to go this way, and it really won't do for you to be late for dinner."

CHAPTER XIV

Thomas Antony Kinsella sat with his legs dangling over the edge of the quay. Beneath him lay his boat. The tide was flowing, but it had not yet floated her. She was supported on an even keel by the mooring ropes made fast from her bow and stern to bollards on the quay. Her sails and gear lay in confusion on her thwarts. She was still half full of gravel although some of her cargo had been shovelled out and lay in a heap behind Kinsella. He was apparently disinclined to shovel out the rest, an excusable laziness, for the day was very hot.

With the point of a knife Kinsella sc.r.a.ped the charred ash from the bowl of his pipe. Then he cut several thin slices from a plug of black twist tobacco, rolled them slowly between the palm of one hand and the thumb of the other; spat thoughtfully over the side of the quay into his boat, charged his pipe and put it into his mouth. There he held it for some minutes while he stared gla.s.sily at the top of his boat's mast. He spat again and then drew a match from his waistcoat pocket.

Sergeant Rafferty of the Royal Irish Constabulary strolled quietly along the quay. It was his duty to stroll somewhere every day in order to intimidate malefactors. He found the quay on the whole a more interesting place than any of the country roads round the town, so he often chose it for the scene of what his official regulations described as a "patrol." When he reached Kinsella he stopped.

"Good day to you," he said.

Kinsella, without looking round, struck his match on a stone beside him and lit his pipe. He sucked in three draughts of smoke, spat again and then acknowledged the sergeant's greeting.

"It's a fine day," said the sergeant

"It is," said Kinsella, "thanks be to G.o.d."

The sergeant stirred the pile of gravel on the quay thoughtfully with his foot Then, peering over Kinsella's shoulder, he took a look at the gravel which still remained in the boat.

"Tell me this, now, Joseph Antony," he said. "Who might that gravel be for? It's the third day you're after bringing in a load and there's ne'er a cart's been down for it yet?"

"I couldn't say who it might be for."

"Do you tell me that now? And who's to pay you for it?"

"Sweeny 'll pay for it," said Kinsella. "It was him ordered it."

The sergeant stirred the gravel again with his foot Timothy Sweeny was a publican who kept a small shop in one of the back streets of Rosnacree.

He was known to the sergeant, but was not regarded with favour. There is a way into Sweeny's house through a back-yard which is reached by climbing a wall. Sweeny's front door was always shut on Sundays and his shutters were put up during those hours when the law regards the consumption of alcohol as undesirable. But the sergeant had good reason to suppose that many thirsty people found their way to the refreshment they craved through the back-yard. Sweeny was an object of suspicion and dislike to the sergeant. Therefore he stirred the gravel on the quay again and again looked at the gravel in the boat. There is no law against buying gravel; but it seemed to the sergeant very difficult to believe that Sweeny had bought four boatloads of it. Joseph Antony Kinsella felt that some explanation was due to the sergeant.

"It's a gentleman up the country," he said, "that Sweeny's buying the gravel for. I did hear that he's to send it by rail when I have the whole of it landed."

He watched the sergeant out of the corners of his eyes to see how he would receive this statement. The sergeant did not seem to be altogether satisfied.

"What are you getting for it?" he asked.

"Five s.h.i.+llings a load."

"You're doing well," said the sergeant.

"It's good gravel, so it is, the best."

"It may be good gravel," said the sergeant, "but the gentleman that's buying it will buy it dear if you take the half of every load you bring in home in the evening and fetch it here again the next morning along with a little more."

The sergeant stared at the gravel in the boat as he spoke. His face had cleared, and the look of suspicion had left his eyes. Sweeny, so his instinct told him, must be engaged in some kind of wrongdoing.

Now he understood what it was. The gentleman up the country was to be defrauded of half the gravel he paid for. Curiously enough, considering that his wrongdoing had been detected, the look of anxiety left Kinsella's face. He sucked at his pipe, found that it had gone out, and slipped it into his waistcoat pocket.

"If neither Sweeny nor the gentleman is making any complaint," he said, "it would suit you to keep your mouth shut."

"I'm not blaming you," said the sergeant "Sure, anybody'd do the same if they got the chance."

"If there's people in the world," said Kinsella, "that hasn't sense enough to see that they get what they pay for, oughtn't we to be thankful for it?"

"You're right there," said the sergeant

Kinsella took out his pipe and lit it again. Sergeant Rafferty after examining the sea with attentive scrutiny for some minutes, strolled back towards his barracks.

Peter Walsh slid off the window sill of Brannigan's shop and took a long look at the sky. Having satisfied himself that its appearance was very much what he expected he walked down the quay to the place where Kinsella was sitting.

"It's a fine evening," he said.