Then Danny saw that, lying on the ground, was something that he had not observed before. It was like a thick black roll some four feet long. Two of the men got hold of it to hand it to the man below.

"Come! lay down, d'ye hear?"

Danny's terror mastered him. He turned to run. Then the man who had spoken first cried, "What's that?"

There was a moment's pause.

"What's what?" said the man in the vault.

"I'll swear on my soul I saw a woman pa.s.s the porch."

A bitter little laugh followed.

"Och, it's always a woman he's seeing."

Danny had found his legs at last. Flying along the gra.s.s as softly as a lapwing, he reached the old gate. Then he turned and listened. No; there was nothing to show that he had been heard. He crept down the steps to the water's edge. There in a creek he saw a boat which he had not observed on going up. He looked at the name.

It was "Ben-my-Chree."

Danny turned to the ford. The tide had risen a foot since he crossed, but he paddled through the water and gained the pier. Then he ran home as fast as his long legs would carry him, wet with sweat and speechless with dismay.

Next morning Danny remembered that he had forgotten all about the harbor-master and the light.

"Och, the cursed young imp that he is," cried his uncle, Bill Kisseck, hitching his hand into Danny's guernsey at the neck, and steadying him as if he had been a sack with an open mouth. "Aw, the b.o.o.by; just taking a rovin' commission and snappin' his finger at the ould masther.

What d'ye think would a happent to you, ye beach-comber, if some ship had run ash.o.r.e and been wrecked and scuttled and all hands lost, and not a pound of cargo left at her, and never a light on the pier, and all along of you, ye idiot waistrel!"

CHAPTER III

"MACK'REL--MACKER-EL--MACK-ER-EL!"

It was a brilliant morning. The sea lay like a gla.s.s floor, and the sunshine, like a million fairies, danced on it. The town looked as bright as it was possible for Peel to look. The smoke was only beginning to coil upward from the chimney stacks and the streets were yet quiet when the silvery voice of a child was heard to cry--

"Sweet violets and primroses the sweetest."

It was a little auburn-haired la.s.sie of five, with ruddy cheeks, and laughing lips, and sparkling brown eyes. She wore a clean white ap.r.o.n that covered her skirt, which was tucked up and pinned in fish-wife fashion in front. Her head was bare; she carried a basket over one arm, and a straw hat that swung on the other hand.

The basket contained flowers which the child was selling: "A ha'penny a bunch, ma'am, only a ha'penny!" The little thing was as bright as the sunlight that glistened over her head. She had made a song of her sweet call, and chanted the simple words with a rhythmic swing--

"Sweet violets and primroses the sweetest."

"Ruby," cried a gentleman at the door of a house facing the sea. "Here, little one, give me a bunch of your falderolls. What? No! not falderolls? Is that it, little one, eh?"

It was Mr. Kerruish Kinvig.

The child pouted prettily and drew back her basket.

"What! not sell to me this morning! Oh, I see you choose _your_ customers, _you_ do, my lady. But I'll have the law on you, I will."

Ruby looked up fearlessly into the face of the dread iconoclast.

"I don't love you," she said.

"No--eh? And why not, now?"

"Because you call the flowers bad names."

"Oh, I do, do I? Well never mind, little one. Say we strike a peace--eh?"

"I don't like people that strike," said Ruby, with averted eyes.

"Well, then, cry a truce--anything you like."

Ruby knew what crying a flower or a fish meant.

"Here, now, little one, here's a penny; that's double wages, you know.

Don't you think the law would uphold me if I asked for a--"

"A what?" asked the child, with innocent eyes.

"Well, say a kiss."

The bargain was concluded and the purchase ratified. In another minute the little feet were tripping away, and from a side street came the silvery voice that sang--

"Sweet violets and primroses the sweetest."

At the next corner the la.s.sie's childlike tones were suddenly drowned by a l.u.s.tier voice which cried, "Mack'rel! Macker--el! Fine, ladies--fresh, ladies--and bellies as big as bishops'--Mack--er--el!"

It was Danny Fayle with a board on his head containing his last instalment of the season's mackerel. When the two street-venders came together they stopped.

"Aw now, the fresh you're looking this morning, Ruby veg--as fresh as a dewdrop, my chree!"

The little one lifted her eyes and laughed. Then she plunged her hand into her basket and brought out a bunch of wild roses.

"That's for you, Danny," she said.

"Och, for me is it now? Aw, and is it for me it is?" said Danny, with wondering eyes. "The clean ruined it would be in half a minute, though, at the likes of me, Ruby veg. Keep it for yourself, woman." _Louder_: "Mack'rel--fine, ladies--fresh, ladies--Macker-el!" _Then lower_: "Aw now, the sweet and tidy they'd be lookin' in your own breast, my chree--the sweet extraordinary!"

The child looked up and smiled, looked down and pondered: then half reluctantly, half coquettishly, fixed the flowers in her bosom.