So then after that they drifted on to the wreck of Daunt’s rock, wreck of that illfated Norwegian barque—nobody could think of her name for the moment till the jarvey who had really quite a look of Henry Campbell remembered it, Palme , on Booterstown Strand, that was the talk of the town that year (Albert William Quill wrote a fine piece of original verse of distinctive merit on the topic for the Irish Times ) breakers running over her and crowds and crowds on the shore in commotion petrified with horror. Then someone said something about the case of the s. s. Lady Cairns of Swansea, run into by the Mona , which was on an opposite tack, in rather muggyish weather and lost with all hands on deck. No aid was given. Her master, the Mona’ s, said he was afraid his collision bulkhead would give way. She had no water, it appears, in her hold.
At this stage an incident happened. It having become necessary for him to unfurl a reef, the sailor vacated his seat.
―Let me cross your bows, mate, he said to his neighbour, who was just gently dropping off into a peaceful dose.
He made tracks heavily, slowly, with a dumpy sort of a gait to the door, stepped heavily down the one step there was out of the shelter