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Updated: May 1, 2025
Adam Craig glanced at him with narrowed eyes. "And Finn McCoul and the bathing queen. I can find you the German tale of a stolen veil from which it's borrowed." "You can find me likely the name of a German who chose to delve into Gaelic for his plot." "You've a ready tongue." "There are times when it's needed."
Harvey swung out of his bunk to hear better; and amid the straining of the timbers and the wash of the waters the tune crooned and moaned on, like lee surf in a blind fog, till it ended with a wail. "Jimmy Christmas! Thet gives me the blue creevles," said Dan. "What in thunder is it?" "The song of Fin McCoul," said the cook, "when he wass going to Norway."
With the brogue strong upon him he told how Finn McCoul had stolen the clothes of a bathing queen and he told in stirring phrase the exploits of Ireland's mighty hero, Cuchullin. He had never had a better listener. Adam Craig fixed his piercing eyes inscrutably upon the teller's face, drank glass after glass of brandy, and remained polite, intent and silent.
They know that Fin McCoul heaved it at Brian Boru, jerking it across the Lough from the opposite mountain five or six miles away, as an indication that he didn't care a button for his rival. These modern mountaineers are almost as easily gulled as their ancestors. They believe in Home Rule because they will, under an Irish Legislature, "get all they want."
"To Ireland," she said. The answer pleased him. "I mind me," he said instantly, "of an Irish tale of Finn McCoul." Joan did not answer. "Tell me," she said at last. "Finn and you are always delightful." Kenny stared at her in marked reproach. "Joan!" he exclaimed. "What what is it, Kenny?" "That's just the sort of polite nothing you learned in New York!" "I'm sorry, Kenny. I'm tired.
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