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Solution Manual for Essentials of
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Written in a friendly style, this brief introductory book makes the study of
psychology accessible and engaging to readers with little background in the
subject. Nevid's comprehensive learning system-derived from research on
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AND APPLICATIONS, 4th Edition, provides a broad view of psychology as
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About the Author

Dr. Jeffrey Nevid is Professor of Psychology at St. John's University in New York. A
Fellow of the American Psychological Association, Society for the Teaching of
Psychology (Division 2), he has conducted research in many areas, including health
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psychology, gender and human sexuality, adolescent development and the teaching of
psychology. He also is actively involved in conducting research on pedagogical
advances to help students succeed in their courses. In addition to over 200 research
publications and professional presentations, Dr. Nevid is the author or co-author of more
than a dozen textbooks and other books in psychology and related fields, many in
multiple editions. His research publications have appeared in such journals as HEALTH
PSYCHOLOGY, JOURNAL OF PERSONALITY ASSESSMENT, JOURNAL OF
CONSULTING AND CLINICAL PSYCHOLOGY, JOURNAL OF COMMUNITY
PSYCHOLOGY, JOURNAL OF YOUTH AND ADOLESCENCE, BEHAVIOR THERAPY,
PSYCHOLOGY AND MARKETING, PROFESSIONAL PSYCHOLOGY, TEACHING OF
PSYCHOLOGY, SEX ROLES and JOURNAL OF SOCIAL PSYCHOLOGY. Dr. Nevid
also served on the editorial boards of the journals HEALTH PSYCHOLOGY, TEACHING
OF PSYCHOLOGY and PSYCHOLOGY AND MARKETING and as associate editor of
the JOURNAL OF CONSULTING AND CLINICAL PSYCHOLOGY. He received his
doctorate from the State University of New York at Albany and completed a postdoctoral
fellowship in evaluation research at Northwestern University.
Other documents randomly have
different content
bearers and burden indiscriminately; the men and women crossed
themselves many times, and the mournful procession started.
Mary Ryan stood at the door and watched it wending its way across the
dreary, uneven fields, past the Three Rocks, now getting lost in some
hollow, again rising to the shoulders of a hillock, the coffin swaying
unevenly on the shoulders of the bearers, the red petticoats of the women in
the rear shaking in the breeze. The widow, almost too weak to move, was
with difficulty restrained from going to the churchyard. Norah, having
arranged the hassock in the corner for her mother, had followed the
procession, and now the old woman thought that she could detect her child
a quarter of a mile away, following in the rear of the party. Micky’s Jim,
who had not gone away yet, was engaged in sorting a rope on the thatch
which had been blown askew by the wind of the previous nights.
“I’ll overtake the funeral, Mary,” he said when he completed the work.
“I was just making the thatch strong against the breeze and I have tied a
broken rope.”
“Mother of God be good to you, Jim, but it is yourself that has the kindly
heart!” said Mary in a tremulous whisper. “Could you take Norah with you
beyond the water next year?”
Jim called to mind the movements of the girl’s body when she stooped to
lift peat for the fire, and the remembrance filled him with pleasure. “When
next summer comes round, I’ll see, Mary Ryan,” he answered. “If there is a
place to spare in the squad I’ll let you know and your Norah will have the
very first chance of it.”
“Mother of God bless you, Jim, for the kindness is in you!” said the old
woman. “It is me that is the lone body this very minute, with never a penny
in my house and not even the old curragh left to me to make a penny by.”
“Well, I’m off, Mary,” said Jim. “The coffin is going out of sight and
they’ll be needing new blood under it.” He hurried across the fields, his
long legs covering an enormous spread of earth at every stride. Over the
brae he hurried, and at the turn of the road halted for a moment and looked
back at Mary Ryan’s cabin. The woman still stood at the door, one hand
shading her eyes, looking towards the Frosses churchyard, which lay more
than three miles away. “Thinkin’ that she could get anything for an old
curragh!” he muttered contemptuously, as he resumed his stride. “She’s an
old fool; but Norah! Ah! she’s a soncy lass, and she was good to look at
when making that fire!”

III

T
HE graveyard, surrounded by a stone wall, broken down in several
places, served as a grazing plot for bullocks, donkeys, and sheep, as
well as for the burial place of the dead. A long walk, lined with stunted
hazel bushes, ran half-way through the yard, and at the end a low stone
vault, hardly higher than a man’s head, stood under the shadow of an
overhanging sycamore.
The funeral procession was delayed on the journey, and Father Devaney,
round-faced and red-cheeked, stamped up and down while waiting its
arrival. He had come all the way from Greenanore and was in a hurry to get
back again. The morning was cold and caused him to shiver a little, and
when he shivered he clapped his hands vigorously, the palm of one against
the back of the other.
His large mansion, complete now and habitable, had not been fully paid
for yet, and most of his parishioners were a pound or two in arrears; when
this money came to hand matters would be much better. Old Devaney had
developed a particularly fine taste in wine and cigars and found these very
expensive; and at present he called to mind how James Ryan was two
pounds in arrears with the mansion tax. The old priest knew that this money
would never come to hand; the widow was ill, no word had been heard of
Fergus for years, and Norah Ryan was a light slip of a girl who would
probably never earn a penny. Devaney knew all the affairs of his flock, and
he stamped up and down the graveyard, a little angry with the dead man
who, being so long in coming to his last home, had kept him waiting for
thirty minutes.
The funeral came in sight, creeping up over the brow of the hill that rose
near at hand, the bearers straining under their burden as they hurried across
the uneven ground, with the coffin rising and falling on their shoulders like
a bark in a storm at sea. The gate of the graveyard was already open; the
procession filed through, Father Devaney stepping out in front, his surplice
streaming in the wind. The good man thought of the warm dinner waiting
for him at home, and being in a hurry to get done with the burial service he
walked so quickly that the bearers could hardly keep up with him. On the
floor of the little vault in the centre of the graveyard the coffin was set
down and the basket of snuff, pipes, and tobacco was handed round. All the
men took pipes, filled them with rank plug and lit them; the older women lit
pipes also, and everybody, with the exception of the priest and Norah Ryan,
took snuff.
“Hurry up!” said Father Devaney. “Ye can smoke after ye do yer duty. It
would be well if ye were puttin’ yer hands in yer pockets now and gettin’
yer offerin’s ready.”
Immediately a stream of silver descended on the coffin. All the mourners
paid rapidly, but in turn, and the priest called out their names as they paid.
A sum of ten pounds seventeen shillings was collected, and this the priest
carefully wrapped up in a woollen muffler and put into his pocket.
“Now hurry up, boys, and get a move on ye; and open the grave!” he
shouted, making no effort to hide his impatience now that the money was
safely in his keeping. He felt full of the importance of a man who knows
that everybody around him trembles under his eyes. Three or four young
fellows were digging the grave and joking loudly as they worked; a crowd
of men stood round them, puffing white clouds of smoke up into the air.
Many of the women were kneeling beside graves that held all that remained
of one or another near and dear to them. Norah Ryan stood alone with the
priest, her dark shawl drawn over her white forehead, and a few stray
tresses, that had fallen over her face, shaking in the breeze.
“It is a black day this for you, Norah, a black day,” said the priest,
speaking in Gaelic. Two tears coursed down the girl’s cheeks, and she fixed
a pair of sorrowful grey eyes on the man when he spoke.
“Don’t cry, girsha beag (little girl),” said the priest. “It is all for the best,
all for the best, because it is the will of God.”
He looked sharply at the girl, who, feeling uncomfortable in his
presence, longed to be away from the man’s side. She wondered why she
had not gone off to the other end of the graveyard with Sheila Carrol, whom
she could now see kneeling before a black wooden cross that was fast
falling into decay. But it would be wrong to go away from the side of her
father’s coffin, she thought.
“Any word from Fergus of late?” the priest was asking.
“No; not the smallest word.”
 That Mary Ryan owed him two pounds, and that there was very little
possibility of ever receiving the money, forcibly occurred to the priest at
that moment. “Ye’ll not be in a good way at home now?” he said aloud.
“There’s hardly a white shilling in the house,” answered the girl.
“Is that the way of it?” exclaimed the priest, then seemed on the point of
giving expression to something more forcible, but with an effort he
restrained himself. “Well, it cannot be helped, I suppose, but there are two
pounds owing for the building of my new house.”

IV

“T HE grave is ready,” said Micky’s Jim, approaching the priest and

saluting. The youth was perspiring profusely; his shirt open at the
neck exposed his hairy chest, on which beads of sweat were
glistening brightly.
“In with the coffin then,” said the priest, taking a book from his pocket
and approaching the open grave. A pile of red earth, out of which several
white bones protruded, lay on the brink, and long earthworms crawled
across it. The coffin was lowered into the grave with a rope. Norah wept
loudly; old Oiney Dinchy remarked that the bones belonged to her
grandparents whom she did not remember.
“Remember man that thou art dust and unto dust thou shalt return,” the
priest chanted in a loud, droning voice. Norah, kneeling on the wet ground,
her head bent down over her bosom, so that her hair hung over her
shoulders, saw nothing but the black coffin which was speedily
disappearing under the red clay, and heard nothing but the thud of the earth
as it struck the coffin.
The priest took his departure; the grave was filled up and the crowd
began to disperse.
“Come away home now,” said Sheila Carrol to Norah, who was still
kneeling on the wet ground. The girl rose without a word, brushed her dress
with a woollen handkerchief and accompanied the beansho from the
churchyard.
“Don’t cry, Norah,” said Sheila, observing that tears were still falling
down the cheeks of her companion. “Everyone must die and go away just
the same as if they had never been at all, for that is the will of God. How is
yer mother this morning?”
“Much the same as she was always,” said Norah. “She cannot get rid of
her cough, and she has shiverin’ fits of late.... Hasn’t the sea the black
heart?”
“Black enough, indeed, my child,” said the beansho. “Your mother will
feel it a big lot?”
“Not so much,” said the girl. “She’ll soon be with him, she’s thinkin’.”
“At the wake I heard her say that she would be the last of the family to
die. What put that into her head?”
“I don’t know what put it into her head, but if I were to die on the wet
road this very minute I wouldn’t care one haet.” On Norah’s face there was
a look of infinite sadness, and the pathos of her words cut Sheila to the
heart.
“Don’t speak like that, Norah Ryan,” she exclaimed. “Death is black and
bitter, but there are things much worse than death, things far, far worse.”
They had now reached a stile, and far in front the soft caishin (path)
wound on by rock and rath across the broad expanse of moor. Several
people, walking one after another, were in front; the soft ooze was squirting
under their feet and splashing against their ankles. In the midst of the
heather a young bullock lay chewing the cud, and looked upon the passers-
by with that stupid, involved look peculiar to the ox; a moor-cock, agitated
and voluble, rose into the air and chattered as it swept across the brown of
the moor.
“I’m goin’ to leave Ireland come Candlemas,” said the beansho, pulling
her feet wearily out of the mire.
“And where would ye be goin’ to then, Sheila Carrol?”
“Beyont the water.”
“Mercy be on us, and are ye goin’ surely?”
“True as death, I’m goin’,” said Sheila Carrol with rising voice. “I’m
sick of this place—not the place itself but the people that’s in it, them with
their bitin’ tongues and cuttin’ talk, them that won’t let those that do them
no harm a-be. Nothin’ bad enough that they wouldn’t put past me, the same
Frosses people. For me it’s always the hard word that they have; even the
priest himself when he meets me on the high road crosses himself as if he
met the red-hot devil out of hell. But did he refuse my shillin’ to-day?...
Even at the wakes the very people point their thumbs at me when I go down
on my own two knees to say a prayer for the dead.... But what am I talkin’
about! Why should I be tellin’ my own sorrows to one that has heavy
troubles of her own to bear.... I’m goin’ beyont the water come next
Candlemas, anyway, Norah Ryan!”
 CHAPTER XI

THE TRAIN FROM GREENANORE

W
HEN one is leaving home every familiar object seems to take on a
different aspect and becomes almost strange and foreign. The streets,
houses, and landscape which you have gazed on for years become in
some way very remote, like objects seen in a dream, but under this guise
every familiar landmark becomes dearer than ever it has been before. So
Norah Ryan felt as she was leaving home in the June of 1905 bound for the
potato fields of Scotland.
“Is this the road to Greenanore, the road that our feet took when goin’ to
the town for the stockin’ yarn?” she asked herself several times. “It is
changed somehow; it doesn’t seem to be the same place, but for all that I
like it better than ever. Why this is I do not know; I seem to be in a dream of
some kind.”
Her thoughts were confused and her mind ran on several things at the
same time; her mother’s words at leave-taking, the prayer that the child
might do well, the quick words of tearless farewell spoken at the doorstep;
and as she thought of these things she wondered why her mother did not
weep when her only child was leaving her.
The girl was now walking alone to the village of Greenanore. There she
would meet all the members of the party, and every step of the journey
brought a thousand bygone memories vividly to her mind. Fergus she
thought of, his good-bye at the cross-roads, the dog whining in Ballybonar,
the lowing cow, the soft song of the sea. Would she ever see Fergus again?
Where had he been all these years? Looking into the distance she could see
the mountains that hemmed Glenmornan, and light clouds, white and fleecy
as Candlemas sheep, resting on the tops of them. Further down, on the
foothills, the smoke of peat-fires rose into the air, telling of the turf-savers
who laboured on the brown bogs at the stacks and rikkles. Norah thought of
Dermod Flynn; indeed she called him to mind daily when gazing towards
the hills of Glenmornan, recollecting with a certain feeling of pride the
boy’s demeanour at school and his utter indifference towards personal
chastisement. The dreamy eyes of Dermod and his manner of looking
through the school window at nothing in particular fascinated her; and the
very remembrance of the youth standing beside her facing the map of the
world always caused a pleasant thrill to run through her body. Now, as she
looked at the hills of Glenmornan, the incidents of the morning on which
she went to pull bog-bine there came back to her mind, and she wondered if
Dermod Flynn thought the hills so much changed on the day when he was
setting out for the rabble of Strabane.
A large iron bridge, lately built by the Congested Districts Board,
spanned the bay between Frosses and Dooey. Norah crossed over this to the
other side, where the black rocks, sharp and pointed, spread over the white
sand. It was here that the women slept out on the mid-winter night many
years ago; and now Norah had only a very dim remembrance of the event.
Up to the rise of the hill she hurried, and from the townland of
Ballybonar looked back at Frosses: at the little strips of land running down
to the sea, at the white lime-washed cabins dotted all over the parish, at
Frosses graveyard and the lone sycamore tree that grew there, showing like
a black stain against the sky. Seeing it, she thought of her father and said an
“Our Father” and “Hail Mary” for the repose of his soul. Then her eye
roved over Frosses again.
“Maybe after this I’ll never set my two eyes on the place,” she said, then
added, “just like Fergus!”
The thought that she might never see the place again filled her with a
certain feeling of importance which up to now had been altogether foreign
to her.

II

A
T the station she met the other members of the potato squad, fifteen in
all. Some were sitting on their boxes, others on the bundles bound in
cotton handkerchiefs which contained all their clothes and toilet
requisites. The latter consisted of combs and hand-mirrors possessed by the
women, and razors, the property of the men. Micky’s Jim was pacing up
and down the platform, his hands deep in his trousers’ pockets and a heavy-
bowled wooden pipe in his mouth. From time to time he pulled the pipe
from between his teeth, accompanying the action with a knowing shrug of
his shoulders, and spat into the four-foot way.
“Is this yerself, Norah?” he exclaimed, casting a patronising glance at
the girl as she entered the railway station. “Ye are almost late for the train.
Did ye walk the whole way?... Ah! here she comes!”
The train came in sight, puffing round the curve; the women rose from
their seats, clutched hastily at their bundles and formed into a row on the
verge of the platform; the men, most of whom were smoking, took their
pipes from their mouths, hit the bowls sharply against their palms, thus
emptying them of white ash; then, with a feigned look of unconcern on their
faces, they picked up their belongings with a leisure which implied that they
were men well used to such happenings. They were posing a little; knowing
that those who came to see them off would tell for days in Frosses how
indifferently Mick or Ned took the train leading to the land beyond the
water. “Just went on the train with no more concern on their faces than if
they were going to a neighbour’s wake!” the Frosses people would say.
The train puffed into the station, the driver descended from his post,
yawned, stretched his arms, and surveyed the crowd with a look of superior
disdain. The fireman, with an oil-can in his hands, raced along the footplate
and disappeared behind the engine, only to come back almost immediately,
puffing and wiping the sweat from his face with a piece of torn and dirty
rag.
“All aboard!” Micky’s Jim shouted in an excited voice, forgetting pose
for a moment. “Hurry up now or the train will be away, leavin’ the biggest
half of ye standin’ here. A train isn’t like Oiney Dinchy’s cuddy cart; it
hasn’t to stop seven times in order to get right started. Hurry up! Go in
sideways, Willie the Duck; ye cannot go through a door frontways carrying
a bundle under yer oxter. Yer stupid ways would drive a sensible man to
pot! Hurry up and come on now! Get a move on ye, every one of the whole
lot of ye!”
Presently all, with the exception of the speaker, were in their
compartments and looking for seats. Micky’s Jim remained on the platform,
waiting for the train to start, when he could show by boarding it as it
steamed out of the station that he had learned a thing or two beyond the
water in his time; a thing or two not known to all the Frosses people.
A ticket collector examined the tickets, chatting heartily as he did so.
When he found that Norah had not procured hers he ran off and came back
with one, smiling happily as if glad to be of assistance to the girl. A lady
and gentleman, tourists no doubt, paced up and down the platform, eyeing
everybody with the tourists’ rude look of enquiry; a stray dog sniffed at
Micky’s Jim’s trousers and got kicked for its curiosity; the engine driver
yawned again, made the sign of the cross on his open mouth and mounted
to his place; the whistle sounded, and with Micky’s Jim standing on the
foot-board the train steamed out of the station.
Norah, who had never been on a train before, took up her seat near the
window, and rubbed the pane with her shawl in order to get a better view of
the country, which seemed to be flying past with remarkable speed. The
telegraph wires were sinking and rising; the poles like big hands gripped
them up, dropped them, but only to lift them up again as threads are lifted
on the fingers of a knitter.
There were eleven people in the compartment, four women and seven
men. One of the latter, Eamon Doherty, was eating a piece of dry bread
made from Indian meal; the rest of the men were smoking black clay pipes,
so short of shank that the bowls almost touched the noses of the smokers.
But Jim’s pipe was different from any of these; it was a wooden one, “real
briar root” he said, and was awfully proud of it. It had cost three shillings
and sixpence in a town beyond the water, he now told the party, not indeed
for the first time; but none of the listeners believed him. Two of the women
said their prayers; one wept because she was leaving Ireland, and Norah
Ryan spent her time looking out of the window.

III

“W HO’LL take a drink?” asked Micky’s Jim, pulling a half-bottle of

whisky from his pocket and drawing out the cork with his fingers.
“Good stuff this is, and I’m as dry as the rafters of hell.... Will ye
have a wee drop, Willie the Duck?”
“No, sure,” answered Willie, who was sitting beside the weeping
woman, his one leg across the other, and his hands clasped over his
stomach. “I would take it if I hadn’t the pledge against drink, indeed I
would. Aye, sure!”
“Aye sure, be hanged!” Jim blurted out. “Ye’ve got to take it, for it’s die-
dog-or-eat-the-gallows this time. Are ye goin’ to take it?”
“No, sure——”
“Why d’ye always say ‘Aye, sure’ and ‘No, sure’ when talking to a
person?” asked Jim, replacing the cork in the bottle, which he now tried to
balance on the point of his finger. “Is it a habit that ye’ve got into, Willie
the Duck?”
“Aye, sure,” answered Willie, edging away from Micky’s Jim, who was
balancing the bottle successfully within an inch of the roof. “Ye’ll let that
bottle fall on me head.”
“Aye, sure,” shouted Micky’s Jim and shook the bottle with perilous
carelessness, holding out the free hand in case it should fall. “It wouldn’t
crack a wooden head anyhow.”
“That’s Brockagh station that we’re comin’ into now, as the man said,”
remarked one of the women who had been praying. The woman was Maire
a Glan, who had been going beyond the water to work for the last four or
five years. Things were not going well at home; her husband lay ill with
paralysis, the children from a monetary point of view were useless as yet—
the oldest boy, thin and weakly, a cripple from birth, went about on
crutches, the younger ones were eternally crying for bread. Maire a Glan
placed the rosary round her neck and took a piece of oaten bread from the
bundle at her feet.
“Will ye have a wee bit to eat, Norah Ryan?” she asked.
“My thanks to ye, Maire a Glan, but I’m not hungry,” answered Norah,
rubbing the window where her breath had dimmed it.
“I thought that ye might be, seeing that yer eye is not wet on leavin’
home,” said the woman, breaking bread and putting a bit of it in her mouth.
“There, the train is stopping!” she went on, “and I have two sisters married
within the stretch of a mile from this place.”
“Aye, sure,” said Willie the Duck with his usual quack. “I know both,
and once I had a notion of one of them, meself.”
“Lookin’ for one of God’s stars to light yer pipe with, as the man said,”
remarked the woman contemptuously, fixing her eyes on the poor fellow’s
hump. “Ye have a burden enough on yer shoulders and not to be thinkin’ at
all of a wife.”
“Them that carries the burden should be the first to complain of it,” said
Willie the Duck, edging still further away from Micky’s Jim, who was now
standing up and balancing the whisky bottle on the point of his nose. The
women tittered, the men drew their pipes from their mouths and gave vent
to loud guffaws. The train started out from Brockagh station, a porter ran
after it, shut a door, and again Norah Ryan watched the fields run past and
the telegraph wires rise and fall.
“I’ll bet that not one of ye knows who’s comin’ to join us at Derry,” said
Micky’s Jim, tiring of his play and putting the bottle back in his pocket,
after having taken a sup of its contents.
“Who?” asked several voices.
“Dermod Flynn from Glenmornan.”
“I haven’t seen that gasair for the last two years or more,” said Murtagh
Gallagher, a young man of twenty-five, who came from the townland of
Meenahalla in the parish of Frosses. “If I mind right, he was sort of soft in
the head.”
A faint blush rose to Norah Ryan’s cheek, and though she still looked out
of the window she now failed to see the objects flying past. The
conversation had suddenly become very interesting for her.
“He has been working with a farmer beyont the mountains this long
while,” said Micky’s Jim. “But I’m keepin’ a place for him in the squad,
and ye’ll see him on the Glasgow boat this very night. Ye have said that he
was soft in his head, Murtagh Gallagher. Well, that remark applies to me.”
Jim spat on his hands, rose to his feet, shoved his fist under Murtagh’s
nose and cried: “Smell that! There’s the smell of dead men off that fist!
Dermod Flynn soft in the head, indeed! I’ll soft ye, ye—ye flat-nosed flea-
catcher ye!”
“I was only making fun,” said Murtagh.
“Make it to his face then!”
“D’ye mind how Dermod Flynn knocked Master Diver down with his
fist in the very school?” asked Judy Farrel, who was also one of the party.
“Aye, sure,” said Willie the Duck. “But it wasn’t with his fist but with a
stick that he struck Master Diver, and mind ye he made the blood to flow!”
 “I’ll soon make blood to flow!” said Micky’s Jim, still holding his fist
under Murtagh Gallagher’s nose.
“I was only in fun,” Gallagher repeated. “Ye’re as hasty as a briar, Jim,
for one cannot open his lips but ye want to blacken his eyes.”
“Now sit down, Micky’s Jim,” said Maire a Glan. “It’s not nice to see
two people, both of them from Donegal, fighting when they’re away from
home.”
“Fightin’!” exclaimed Jim, dropping into his seat and pulling out his
pipe. “I see no fightin’.... I wish to God that someone would fight.... Sort of
soft in the head, indeed!... I never could stand a man from Meenahalla,
anyway.”

IV

T
HE train sped on. House, field, and roadway whirled by, and Norah,
almost bewildered, ceased to wonder where this road ran to, who lived
in that house, what was the name of this village and whether that large
building with the spire on top of it was a church (Bad luck to it!) or chapel
(God bless it!).
“I’ll see him again,” she thought, her mind reverting to Dermod Flynn.
“I wonder how he’ll look now; if his hair is still as curly as when he was at
Frosses school.... Two years away from his own home and the home of all
his people! Such a long while, and now he’ll know everything about the
whole world.” Mixed with these lip-spoken words was the remembrance of
her mother all alone in the old cabin at Frosses, and a vague feeling of
regret filled her mind.
“Are you getting homesick, Norah?” Maire a Glan enquired, speaking in
Gaelic, which came more easily than English to her tongue. “It’s not the dry
eye that always tells of the lightest heart, I know myself.”
“Old Oiney Dinchy has a fine daughter,” Eamon Doherty was saying.
“She’s as stuck-up as Dooey Head,” piped Judy Farrel in a weak, thin
voice.
“Micky’s Jim has a notion of her, I hear,” remarked Willie the Duck.
“But what girl hasn’t Jim a notion of?”
Jim cleaned out the bowl of his pipe with a rusty nail and fell asleep
while engaged on the task. The conversation went on.
 “Old Farley McKeown is goin’ to get married to an English lady.”
“A young soncy wench she is, they say!”
“Think of that, for old Farley! A wrinkled old stick of seventy! Ah! the
shameless old thing!”
“It’ll be a cold bed for the girl that is alongside of him. She’ll need a lot
of blankets, as the man said.”
“Aye, sure, and she will that.”
“But he’s the man that has the money to pay for them.”
Norah, deep in a dreamy mood, listened idly to snatches of song, the
laughter, and the voices that seemed to be speaking at a very remote
distance; but after a while, sinking into the quiet isolation of her own
thoughts, the outside world became non-existent to the young girl. She was
thinking of Dermod; why he persisted in coming up before her mind’s eye
she could not explain, but the dream of meeting with him on the streets of
Derry exerted a restful influence over her and she fell into a light slumber.
“It’s the soncy girl she looks with the sleep on her.”
Almost imperceptibly Norah opened her eyes. The transition was so
quiet that she was hardly aware that she had slept, and those who looked on
were hardly aware that she had wakened. It was Maire a Glan who had been
speaking. The train now stood at a station and Micky’s Jim was walking up
and down the platform, his pipe in his mouth and his hands deep in his
trousers’ pockets. Facing the window was a bookstall and a white-faced girl
handing to some man a newspaper and a book with a red cover, Norah
recollected that Fergus often read books with red covers just like the one
that was handed over the counter of the bookstall. That it was possible to
have a shop containing nothing but books and papers came as a surprise to
Norah Ryan. Over the bookstall in white letters was the station’s name—
Strabane. Of this town Norah had often heard. It was to the hiring market
of Strabane that Dermod Flynn had gone two years ago. Other two trains
stood at the station, one on each side, and both full of passengers.
“Where are all those people going, Maire a Glan?” asked Norah.
“Everywhere, as the man said,” answered the old woman, who was
telling her rosary and taking no notice of anything but the black beads
passing through her fingers.
 A boy walked up and down in front of the carriage, selling oranges at
fourpence a dozen. Micky’s Jim bought sixpence worth and handed them
through the window, telling all inside to eat as many as they liked; he would
pay. Maire a Glan left her beads aside until the feast was finished. The
engine whistled; Micky’s Jim boarded the moving train and again the fields
were running past and the telegraph wires rising and falling.
“ ‘Twon’t be long till we are on the streets of Derry now,” said Micky’s
Jim, drawing another half-bottle of whisky from his pocket and digging out
the cork with a clasp-knife.
“ ‘Twon’t be very long, no, sure,” said Willie the Duck, edging away
from Micky’s Jim.
 CHAPTER XII

DERRY

T
HEY stepped on the dry and dusty Derry streets, the whole fifteen of
them, with their bundles over their shoulders or dangling from their
arms. Norah Ryan, homesickness heavy on her heart, had eyes for
everything; and everything on which she looked was so strange and foreign:
the car that came along the streets, moving so quickly and never a horse
drawing it; the shops where hair was taken off for a few pence and put on
again for a few shillings; shops with watches and gold rings in the
windows; shops where they sold nothing but books and papers; and the high
clocks, facing four ways at once and looking all over the town and the
country beyond.
The long streets, without end almost, the houses without number, the
large mills at the water-side, where row after row of windows rose one
above another, until it made the eye dim and the head dizzy to look up at
them, the noise, the babble of voices, the hurrying of men, the women, their
dresses, filled Norah with a weary longing for her own fireside so far away
by the shores of the sea that washed round Donegal.
A bell tolled; Micky’s Jim turned round and looked at Norah, who
immediately blessed herself and commenced to say the Angelus. “That’s not
the bell above the chapel of Greenanore, that’s the town clock,” laughed
one of the women.
“There’s no God in this town,” said Micky’s Jim.
“No God!” Norah exclaimed, stopping in the midst of her prayer and
half inclined to believe what Micky’s Jim was saying.
“None at all,” said Micky’s Jim. “God’s choice about the company He
keeps and never comes near Derry.”
 The party went to the Donegal House, a cheap little restaurant near the
quay. The place was crowded. In addition to the potato squad there were
several harvestmen from various districts in Donegal, and these were going
over to Scotland now, intending to earn a few pounds at the turnip-thinning
and haymaking before the real harvest came on. Most of the harvesters were
intoxicated and raised a terrible hubbub in the restaurant while taking their
food.
Micky’s Jim, who was very drunk, sat on one chair in the dingy dining-
room, placed his feet on another chair, and with his back pressed against the
limewashed wall sank into a deep slumber. The rest of the party sat round a
rude table, much hacked with knives, and had tea, bread, and rancid butter
for their meal. A slatternly servant, a native of Donegal, served all
customers; the mistress of the house, a tall, thin woman, with a long nose
sharp as a knife and eyes cruel enough to match the nose, cooked the food.
The tea was made in a large pot, continually on the boil. When a bowl of tea
(there were no cups) was lifted out a similar amount of water was put in to
replace it and a three fingerful of tea was added. The man of the house, a
stout little fellow with a red nose, took up his position behind the bar and
sold whisky with lightning rapidity. Now and again he gave a glass of
whisky free of cost to some of the harvesters who weren’t drinking very
heavily. Those who got free drinks usually bought several glasses of liquor
afterwards and became the most drunken men in the house.
After a long sleep Micky’s Jim awoke and called for a bowl of tea.
Followed all the way by the shrill voice of her mistress, who was always
scolding somebody, the servant girl carried the tea to Jim, and the youth
drank a mouthful of it while rubbing one hand vigorously across his eyes in
order to drive the sleep away from them.
“This tay is as long drawn as the face of yer mistress,” grumbled Jim,
and the servant giggled. “I’m forgettin’ all about Dermod Flynn too,” Jim
continued, turning to Norah Ryan, who sat on the chair next him. “I must go
out and look for him. He was to meet me at the quay, and I’m sure that he’ll
be on the wait for me there now.”
“Poor Dermod!” said Norah in answer to Jim. “Maybe he’ll get lost out
on the lone streets, seein’ that he is all be himself.”
“Him to get lost!” exclaimed Jim. “Catch Dermod Flynn doin’ anything
as foolish as that! He’s the cute rogue is Dermod!”
 The tables and chairs in the eating-room were now cleared away and
someone suggested getting up a dance. The harvestmen ceased swearing
and began thumping their hobnailed boots on the floor; Willie the Duck
played on a fiddle, which he had procured years before for a few shillings in
a Glasgow rag-market, and in the space of a minute all the women,
including old Maire a Glan, who looked sixty if a day, ranged on the floor
preparatory to dancing a six-hand reel. On seeing this, the red-nosed
landlord jumped over the counter and commenced to swear at the musician.
“The curse of Moses be on ye!” he roared. “There’ll be no dancin’ here.
Thumpin’ on the floor, ye gallivantin’ fools! If ye want dancin’ go out to the
quay and dance. Dance into the Foyle or into hell if ye like, but don’t dance
here! Come now, stop it at once!”
“It’s such a roarin’ tune,” said Maire a Glan, interrupting him.
“It is that,” answered the man, “but it needs a lighter foot than yours to
do it justice, decent woman. There was a time when me meself could caper
to that; aye, indeed.... But what am I talkin’ about? There’ll be no dancin’
here.”
“Just one wee short one?” said a girl. Willie the Duck played with
redoubled enthusiasm.
“No, nor half a one,” said the proprietor, tapping absently on the floor
with his foot. “God’s curse on ye all! D’ye want to bring down the house
over me head?... ‘The Movin’ Bogs of Allen’ that’s playin’, isn’t it? A good
tune it, surely. But stop it! stop it!” roared the red-nosed man, cutting a
caper, half a step and half a kick in front of the fiddler. “I don’t want your
damned dancin’, I can’t stand it. God have mercy on me! Sure I’m wantin’
to foot it meself!”

II

B
UT the dancing was in full swing now, despite the vehemence of the
proprietor. He looked round helplessly, and finding that his wife was
already dancing with old Eamon Doherty he seized hold of the servant
girl and whirled her into the midst of the party with a loud whoop that
surprised himself even as much as it surprised the Donegal dancers.
Micky’s Jim was dancing with Norah Ryan and pressing her tightly to
his body. The youth’s breath smelt of whisky and his movements were
violent and irregular.
“Ye’re hurtin’ me, Jim,” said the girl, and he lifted her in his arms and
carried her to a seat.
“Now are ye better?” he asked, not at all unkindly. “Will I get ye a glass
of cordial?”
“Don’t bother about cordial,” said the girl; “but go out and look for
Dermod Flynn. Ye said that ye’d go out a good while ago.”
“Why are ye so anxious about him, girsha?” asked Jim. “One would
think that he was a brother of yours. Maybe indeed——”
He paused, looked round, then without another word he rose, went out
into the street’ and took his way to the wharf, and there, when he could not
find Dermod Flynn after a few minutes’ search, he sat down on a capstan, lit
his pipe and puffed huge clouds of smoke up into the air.
“Now I wonder why that Norah Ryan is so anxious about Dermod
Flynn?” he muttered. “Man! it’s hard to know, for these women are all
alike.... By Cripes, she’s a fine built bit of a lassie. So is old Oiney Dinchy’s
daughter ... Frosses and Glenmornan for women and fighters!... And the
best fighters don’t always get the best women. Now, that Norah Ryan will
have nothin’ at all to do with me as far as I can see; it’s Dermod Flynn that
she wants.... I’ll have to look round for another wench, and girsha Oiney
Dinchy (Oiney Dinchy’s daughter) is a soncy slip of a cutty.”
When Dermod Flynn came along Jim had to look at him very closely
before realising that this was the youth whom he had known in Glenmornan
two summers before. Dermod stood sturdily on his legs; his shoulders were
broad, his back straight, and his well-formed chest betokened great strength
even now at the age of fourteen. A bundle dangled on his arm; one knee was
out through his trousers, and he carried a hazel stick in his hand.
“Patrick’s Dermod!” exclaimed Jim, a glance of glad recognition coming
into his eyes when he had stared for a moment at Flynn. “By Cripes! ye’ve
grown to be a big healthy bucko since last I saw ye.”
Dermod flushed with pleasure. Jim began to ply him with questions
about his work in Tyrone, his masters, whether they were good or bad, and
—above all—if he had ever had a fight since he left home.
Dermod assured him that he had had many a hard, gruelling fight;
knocked down a man twice his size with one blow of his fist and blackened
the eyes of a youth who was head and shoulders taller than himself.
“And who have ye with ye, Jim?” he asked. “Any of the Glenmornan
people?”
“Lots,” answered Jim. “Willie the Duck, Eamon Doherty, Judy Farrel,
Maire a Glan, Norah Ryan—but she’s not from Glenmornan, she’s a
Frosses girsha.”
He looked sharply at Dermod as he spoke.
“She was at Glenmornan school with me,” said Flynn. “Where is she
now?”
“There’s a dance goin’ on in the Donegal House; that’s where we had our
bit and sup, and she’s shaking her feet on the floor there.”
“Can we go there and see the dancers?”
“There’s not much time now,” said Jim. “And there’s the boat, that big
one nearest us, that we’re goin’ on this very night. She’s a rotten tub and
we’ll be very sick goin’ round the Mulls of Cantyre.”
“Will we?”
“What I mean is that ye and all the rest of the men and women will be
sick. I was never sea-sick in my life.”
“When is it going away?”
“In about half an hour from now.”
“How long will it take us to get across?” asked Dermod. “Ten hours?”
“God look on yer wit!” exclaimed Jim. “If there’s a fog on the Clyde it
will maybe take three days—maybe more. Ye can never know what a boat’s
goin’ to do. Ye can no more trust it than ye can trust a woman.”
 CHAPTER XIII

A WILD NIGHT

T
HE dance came to an end, and, worn out with their exertions, the women
picked up their shawls and wrapped them round their shoulders. Then
getting their bundles they went towards the wharf, Willie the Duck
leading, his fiddle under his arm and his bundle tied over his shoulders with
a string. Coming to the quay they passed through a gloomy grain-shed,
where heating bags of wheat sent a steam out into the air. Suddenly, gazing
through the rising vapour, Norah saw horses up in the sky and she could
hear them neighing loudly. For a moment she paused in terror and
wondered how such a thing could be, then recollected that in a town, where
there was no God, anything might be possible. Once out in the open Maire a
Glan pointed to the fall-and-tackle, hardly distinguishable at a distance,
which was lifting the animals off the pier and lowering them down to the
main deck of the boat. The horses were turning round awkwardly and
snorting wildly, terrified by the sound of the sea.
Bags of grain were being lifted on long chains; dark derricks shoved out
lean arms that waved to and fro as if inviting somebody to come near; cattle
lowing and slipping were being hammered by the drovers’ blackthorns into
the hold; a tall man with face fierce and swarthy, eyes bright as fire, and
mouth like a raw, red scar, was roaring out orders in a shrill voice, and
suddenly in the midst of all this Norah saw Micky’s Jim leaning against the
funnel of the boat, his hands deep in his trousers’ pockets and the eternal
pipe in his mouth, apparently heedless of all that was going on around him.
Beside Jim stood one whom Norah knew, but one who had changed a
great deal since she had seen him last. As she went up the gang-plank,
stepping timidly, cowering under the great derrick that wheeled above, she
felt that a pair of eyes were fixed upon her, piercing into her very soul. She
turned her gaze towards the deck and found Dermod Flynn looking straight
at her as she made her way aboard. In an instant her eye had taken the
whole picture of the youth, his clothes, the coat, much the worse for wear,
his trousers, thin at knee and frilly at the shoe-mouth, his cap torn at rim
and crown, the stray locks of hair straggling down his forehead, the bundle
lying at his feet, and the hazel stick which he held in his hand, probably
even yet in imitation of the cattle drovers who went along Glenmornan road
on the way to the fair of Greenanore. These things Norah noticed with a
girl’s quick intuitive perception, but what struck her most forcibly was
Dermod’s look of expectation as he watched her come up the gang-plank
towards him.
“Dermod Flynn, I hardly knew ye at all,” she said, putting out her hand
and smiling slightly. “Ye’ve got very big these last two years.”
“So did you, Norah,” Dermod answered, looking curiously at the small
white hand which he gripped in his own. “You are almost as tall as I am
myself.”
“Why wouldn’t I be as tall as you are?” Norah replied, although Dermod
had unknowingly squeezed her hand in a hard, tense grip. “Am I not a year
and a half older?”
When her hand was released her skin showed white where Dermod’s
fingers had gripped her, but she did not feel angry. On the contrary the girl
was glad because he was so strong.
“Come over here!” cried Maire a Glan, who was sitting on her bundle
beside the rail, smoking a black clay pipe and spitting on the deck.
The noise was deafening; the rowting of the cattle in the pens became
louder; a man on the deck gave a sharp order; the gangway was pulled off
with a resounding clash, the funnel began to rise and fall; Norah saw the
pier move; a few women were weeping; some of the passengers waved
handkerchiefs (none of them too clean) to the people on the quay; rails were
bound together, hatches battened down; sailors hurried to and fro; a loud
hoot could be heard overhead near the top of the funnel and the big vessel
shuffled out to the open sea.

II
T
HE boat was crowded with harvestmen from Frosses, potato-diggers
from Glenmornan and Tweedore; cattle drovers from Coleraine and
Londonderry, second-hand clothes-dealers, bricklayers’ labourers, farm
hands, young men and old, women and children; all sorts and conditions of
people.
“There are lots of folk gathered together on this piece of floatin’ wood,”
said Maire a Glan, crossing herself, a habit of hers, when speaking of
anything out of the ordinary. “The big boat is a wonderful thing; beds with
warm blankets and white sheets to sleep in, tables to sit down at and have
tea in real cups and saucers, just the same as Father Devaney has at
Greenanore, and him not out at all in the middle of the ocean on a piece of
floatin’ wood!”
“And will we get a bed to sleep in?” asked Norah Ryan.
“Why should we be gettin’ a grand bed? We’re only the poor people, and
the poor people have no right to these things on a big boat like this one,”
said the old woman, putting her black clay pipe into the pocket of her
apron. “There are no grand beds for people like us; they’re only for the
gentry.”
“Wouldn’t a bed look nice on a Frosses curragh?” said Micky’s Jim,
sitting down on the bundle belonging to Willie the Duck and pulling the
cork from a bottle of whisky which he had procured in Derry. “Will ye have
a drop, Maire a Glan?” he asked.
“I’ll not be havin’ any,” said the old woman, who nevertheless put out
her hand, caught the bottle and raised it to her lips. “It’s a nice drop this,”
she said, when she had swallowed several mouthfuls, “but I’m not goin’ to
drink any of it. I’m only just tastin’ it.”
“If it was my bottle I’d be content if ye only just smelt it,” said Eamon
Doherty, with a dry laugh.
“Dermod Flynn had one great fight in Tyrone,” said Micky’s Jim after
draining some of the liquor. “Gave his master one in the guts and knocked
him as sick as a dog.”
“Get away!”
“So he was sayin’. Dermod Flynn, come here and give an account of
yerself.”
 The young fellow, who was watching the waves slide past the side of the
vessel, came forward when Micky’s Jim called him.
“Give an account of yerself, Dermod Flynn,” Jim cried. “Did ye not
knock down yer boss with one in the guts? That was the thing to do; that’s
what a Glenmornan man should do. I mind once when I was coal humpin’
on the Greenock Docks——”
And without waiting for an answer to his question, Jim narrated the story
of a fight which had once taken place between himself and a Glasgow
sailor.
The sun, red as a live coal, was sinking towards the west, the murmur,
powerful and gentle, of a trembling wind could be heard overhead; a white,
ghostly mist stole down from the shore on either side and spread far out
over the waters. The waves lapped against the side of the vessel with short,
sudden splashes, and the sound of the labouring screw could be heard
pulsing loudly through the air. A black trail of smoke spread out behind; a
flight of following gulls, making little apparent effort, easily kept pace with
the vessel.
“They will follow us to Scotland,” said Maire a Glan, pointing at the
birds with a long claw-like finger.
Most of the men were drunk; a few lying stretched on the deck were
already asleep, and the rest were singing and quarrelling. Micky’s Jim
stopped in the middle of an interesting story, a new one, but also about a
fight, and joined in a song; old Maire a Glan helped him with the chorus.

III
A man, full of drink and fight, paraded along the deck, his stride
uncertain and unsteady, a look born of the dark blood of mischief showing
in his eyes. He had already been fighting; in his hand he carried an open
clasp-knife; one eyebrow had been gashed and the strip of torn flesh hung
down even as far as his high cheekbones. He was dressed in a dirty pea-
jacket and moleskin trousers; a brown leather belt with a huge, shiny buckle
was tied round his waist, and the neck of a half-empty whisky bottle could
be seen peeping over the rim of his coat pocket. His shoulders were broad
and massive, his neck short and wrinkled and the torn shirt showed his deep
chest, alive with muscles and terribly hairy, more like an animal’s than a
man’s. His hands, which seemed to have never been washed, were knotted
and gnarled like the branches of an old and stunted bush.
“This is young O’Donnel from the County Donegal, and young
O’Donnel doesn’t give a damn for any man on this boat!” he roared,
speaking of himself in the third person, and brandishing the knife carelessly
around him. “I can fight like a two year old bullock, and a blow from young
O’Donnel is like a kick from a young colt that’s new to the grass. I’m a
Rosses man and I don’t care a damn for any soul on this bloody boat—not
one damn! So there ye are!”
Suddenly observing Dermod Flynn staring at him, he slouched forward
and struck the boy heavily across the face with a full swing of his left fist.
Dermod dropped quietly to the deck; Micky’s Jim, who was suggesting to
Willie the Duck that the fiddle should be flung into the sea, threw down the
instrument which he held and, jumping on the top of O’Donnel, with a
sudden movement of his hand sent the knife flying into the sea.
“Ye long drink of water, I’ll do for ye!” shouted Jim, and with feet and
fists he hammered O’Donnel into insensibility.
Dermod Flynn regained his feet with a swollen cheek and a long red
gash stretching along his face from ear to chin. He was helped to a seat by
one of the party; Norah Ryan procured some water and bathed his face,
rubbing her fingers tenderly over the sore.
“It was a shame to hit ye, Dermod,” she said. “One would think that a
big man like that wouldn’t hit a small boy like yourself!”
Dermod flushed and his eyes lit up as if he was going to say something
cutting, but Norah checked the words by pressing her hand across his brow
and looking at him with eyes of womanly understanding.
“I know what ye are goin’ to say, Dermod,” she said. “Ye’re goin’ to tell
me that ye are a man: and no one can deny that. Ye were a man when ye
were at school and hit the master. Sure I know meself what ye had in yer
head to say.”
Dermod resented the words of consolation and felt like rising and
walking away from the girl, if her fair fingers had not been pressing so
softly and tenderly against his cheek. He shrugged his shoulders and
resigned himself to the ministrations of Norah.
“By God, I wasn’t long with him!” cried Micky’s Jim, kicking idly at
Willie the Duck’s fiddle which still lay on the deck. “I just gave him one in