There were two of them; one, a lad of sixteen--a bright, curly-headed
rascal--and, being a young Irishman, of course, his name was Pat. The
other was an ugly, and rather melancholy-looking scamp; one M'Gee,
whose prospects in life had been blasted by a premature
transportation to Sydney. This was the report, at least, though it
might have been scandal.

In most of my shipmates were some redeeming qualities; but about
M'Gee, there was nothing of the kind; and forced to consort with him,
I could not help regretting, a thousand times, that the gallows had
been so tardy. As if impelled, against her will, to send him into the
world, Nature had done all she could to insure his being taken for
what he was. About the eyes there was no mistaking him; with a
villainous cast in one, they seemed suspicious of each other.

Glancing away from him at once, the bluff priest rested his gaze on
the good-humoured face of Pat, who, with a pleasant roguishness, was
"twigging" the enormous hats (or "Hytee Belteezers," as land beavers
are called by sailors), from under which, like a couple of snails,
peeped the two little Frenchmen.

Pat and the priest were both from the same town in Meath; and, when
this was found out, there was no end to the questions of the latter.
To him, Pat seemed a letter from home, and said a hundred times as
much.

After a long talk between these two, and a little broken English from
the Frenchmen, our visitors took leave; but Father Murphy had hardly
gone a dozen rods when back he came, inquiring whether we were in
want of anything.