"And where were you going in your boat, and how did you get upset ?" I asked.
He sighed.

"It was the old hooker we started in, bad luck to her!" "Is that the name of the boat you were holding on to ?" "_That_ boat?
No! We borrowed _her_--and now ye remind me, I wouldn't be surprised if Tim Brady was missing her by this, for I had no leisure to ask his leave at the time, and, as a rule, we take our own coracle in the hooker--" "What _is_ a hooker ?" I interrupted, for I was resolved to know.
"What's a hooker?
A hooker--what a catechetical little chatterbox ye are! A man can't get a word in edgeways--a hooker's a boat.

Ours was a twenty-ton, half-decked, cutter-rigged sort of thing, built for nothing in particular, and always used for everything.

It was lucky for me we took Tim Brady's boat instead of the coracle, or I'd be now where--where poor Barney is.

Oh, Barney, Barney! How'll I ever get over it?
Why did ye never learn to swim, so fond of the water as ye were?
Why couldn't ye hold on to me when I got a good grip of ye! Barney, dear, I've a notion in my heart that ye left your hold on purpose, and threw away your own life that ye mightn't risk mine.