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It is the month of June, and the afternoon air is warm and hazy upon the land, though a gentle northerly breeze is on the water, just enough to fill the sails of Lord Mavourneen's little yacht, so that by making many short tacks he may beat up to the mouth of the Black Sea before sunset.
Even Fate, the universal Kismet, procrastinates in Turkey, and Lord Mavourneen's special mission is to out-procrastinate the procrastinator.
Now and then a big ferry-boat puffs into sight, churning the tranquil waters into foam with her huge paddles; a dozen sailing craft are in view, from Lord Mavourneen's smart yawl to the outlandishly rigged Turkish schooner, her masts raking forward like the antlers of a stag at bay, and spreading a motley collection of lateen-sails, stay-sails, square top-sails, and vast spinnakers rigged out with booms and sprits, which it would puzzle a northern sailor to name.
Nothing after that could be missed without some reference to her. "Where's the corkscrew?" Robert would say. "I suppose Kathleen Mavourneen's got it." "It's no use," Jack would remark, "I can't find the salt. Erin go bragh!"
Barney mavourneen's be it, says I. Anything strange or wonderful, Joe? Not a word, says Joe. I was up at that meeting in the City Arms. -What was that, Joe? says I. Cattle traders, says Joe, about the foot and mouth disease. I want to give the citizen the hard word about it. So we went around by the Linenhall barracks and the back of the courthouse talking of one thing or another.
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