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 he insisted on regarding the visit as a pleasant social function, and evaded all attempts to talk business. Mrs. Normanstill poured out tea. She discussed the scenery, the weather, and a new novel which Mr. Nicholson-Croly had not read. When at last the unfortunate young man propounded his potato problem, his host affected to regard it as an excellent joke, and suggested that Mr. Nicholson-Croly should swim ashore once or twice every day with a May Queen potato in his mouth. Evidently the tidy bit of a boat was not to be borrowed on any terms.

Next day the five curraghs were hired, and loaded with potatoes under a withering fire of sarcasm from Captain MacNab, echoed by his crew, who watched operations with broad grins. Father Gibbons' estimate of the capacity of the curraghs proved too high. Barely two tons of potatoes were landed before dark. Mr. Nicholson-Croly went to bed and slept uneasily, haunted by a nightmare of a whole life spent in ferrying potatoes by twos and threes across an abnormally stormy waste of water. Three days of immense toil resulted in the housing of nearly six tons of battered May Queens in a galvanised iron shed lent by Father Gibbons for purposes of sorting. After that the owners of the curraghs declined to put to sea any more. Nor would offers of increased payment, expositions of the value of the potatoes to the community, or threats