happened to mention PATRICKSEN, so he fled, cowed, humiliated, cap
in hand, to Manxland, but left to her her child, her liberator, her
FASON, so that she might span her little world of shame and pain on
the bridge of Hope's own rainbow. She did this every day, and no one
in all Iceland, rugged, hungry, cold Iceland, knew how she did it. It
was a pretty trick.

CHAPTER II.

This is the Isle of Man, the island of MATT MYLCHREEST, and NARY
CROWE, but plenty of vultures, the island of Deemsters, and Keys,
and Kirk Maughold, and Port y Vullin. Here at the Lague lived ADAM
FATSISTER, the Deputy Governor, who had been selected for that post
because he owned five hundred hungry acres, six hungrier sons, a face
like an angel's in homespun, a flaccid figure, and a shrewd-faced
wife, named RUTH. Hither came STIFFUN, to beg shelter. The footman
opened the door to him, but would have closed it had not ADAM, with a
lusty old oath, bidden him to let the man in. Hereupon STIFFUN's face
softened, and the footman's dropped; but ORRORS, with an Icelander's
inborn courtesy, picked it up, dusted it, and returned it to its
owner. Shortly afterwards, STIFFUN became a bigamist and a wrecker,
and had another son, whom, in honour of the Manxland Parliament, he
christened MICHAEL MOONKEYS, and left him to be cared for by old
ADAM, whose daughter's name was GREEBA. STIFFUN, as I have said, was
a wrecker, a wrecker on strictly Homeric principles, but a wrecker,
nevertheless. When storm-winds blew, he was a pitcher and tosser
on the ocean, but, like other pitchers, he went to the bad once too
often, and got broken on the rocks. Then came KANE WADE, and CHALSE,
and MYLCHREEST, and they sang hymns to him.