While you're discussing matters with Father Boyle.
I--know you're burning to.

Sure it's yourself knows as well as anybody, Captain Con, that I can walk a day long and take care of my steps.

I've walked the better half of Donegal alone, and this morning I'll have a protector.' Captain Con eyed the protector, approved of him, disapproved of himself, thought of Kathleen as a daughter of Erin--a privileged and inviolate order of woman in the minds of his countrymen--and wriggling internally over a remainder scruple said: 'Mr.Colesworth mayhap has to write a bit in the morning.' 'I'm unattached at present,' the latter said.

'I am neither a correspondent nor a reporter, and if I were, the event would be wanting.' 'That remark, sir, shows you to be eminently a stranger to the official duties,' observed the captain.

'Journalism is a maw, and the journalist has to cram it, and like anything else which perpetually distends for matter, it must be filled, for you can't leave it gaping, so when nature and circumstance won't combine to produce the stuff, we have recourse to the creative arts.