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But when at last the wizard came to the most distasteful part of his discourse, namely the message from Reginald Rooney, that, on the occasion of his visit to the camp, he would take up his abode with Angut, that hero's countenance lighted up with surprise, not unmingled with pleasure. "Is Ujarak sure that the Kablunet said this?" asked Angut. "Quite sure," replied the wizard.
As he spoke a haggard thing arose from behind a tombstone, a witchlike creature, with rags falling about her wasted form and hair that almost hid her face. The twain were set a-sneezing by the fumes of sulphur, and Rooney swore afterwards that there were little things at the end of the yard with grinning faces and lights on the ends of their tails. Old Hollands are heady.
The Widow Rooney has appeared no very inviting personage through these pages, and the reader may wonder that a man of rank could proceed to such desperate lengths upon such slight temptation; but, gentle reader, she was young and attractive when she was married never to say handsome, but good-looking decidedly, and with that sort of figure which is comprehended in the phrase "a fine girl."
The half door of the barn is carried into the ring by one or two of her admirers, whom she numbers by the score, and on this she dances her famous jig polthogue, sometimes alone and sometimes with Art Rooney, the only worthy partner for her in the kingdom of Kerry.
"'I humbly thank you, sir, says Father Rooney and I thank my noble little parishioner for his generosity to the poor old friar God mark you to grace, my dear; and wherever you go, take the ould man's blessing along with you. "They then bid us good-night, and we rose and saw them to the door. "Father Corrigan now appeared to be getting sleepy.
"Pump away, lads," cried Baldwin, looking back at his assistants. "Whist! What's that?" asked the pupil excitedly, as a hissing sound buzzed round his head. "Why, that's the air coming in. Now then, I'll screw on the glass. Are you all right?" "All right," replied Rooney, telling, as he said himself afterwards, "one of the biggist lies he iver towld in his life!"
No one, apparently, save the faithful Tim Rooney, gave a thought to the latter, now resting in his quiet tomb in Happy Valley! "Bedad, we miss our ould sickond mate, sorr," I heard him say to Mr Mackay, who was a little strange to the job, having had nothing to do in the stowing line for some time, his duties as first mate being more connected with the navigation of the ship.
"No; I was in dreamland," answered the Eskimo, with profound gravity, which his countrymen knew quite well was pretended; "and I met a torngak there, who told me that the Kablunet needed much sleep as well as food, and must not be roused by me, although other fools might disturb him." "How kind of the torngak!" returned Rooney.
"Does it not make you think," returned the Eskimo, "how powerful must be the Great Spirit who made all things, when a little part of His work is so tremendous?" Rooney did not reply, for at that moment the berg grounded, with a shock that sent all its spires and pinnacles tumbling. Fortunately, the Eskimos were near their cavern, into which they rushed, and escaped the terrible shower.
"Set a-goin' the air-pumps up there," shouted Rooney, from whose face the perspiration flowed freely, as much from anxiety about his friend as from prolonged exertion in a constrained attitude. In a few seconds the air came hissing into the helmet, showing that the two men who wrought it were equal to their duty, though inexperienced. "All right?" asked Rooney a second time.
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