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Updated: June 10, 2025
"They'll not live long," said Michael. "Amn't I telling you that they're dying out? It's the sleep that's killing them." Miss Clarence drew a large notebook and a pencil from her bag. Michael was greatly pleased. He went on to tell her that the Inishrua islanders had become enormously rich during the war. Wrecked ships had drifted on to their coasts in dozens.
And he's a king right enough. There's always been a king on Inishrua, the same as in England." Miss Clarence was aware she had read the thing somewhere that the remoter and less civilised islands off the Irish Coast are ruled by chieftains to whom their people give the title of King.
There comes a place where this turns northwards. Frank had to push down the tiller in order to bring the boat on her new course. He began to understand the meaning of what he did. The island of Inishrua lay under his lee. Priscilla scanned its slope for the sight of a tent.
She showed him, each time the boat went about, the spot which with reasonably good steering he ought to have reached. It was always many yards to windward. At the end of the passage the boat stood on the starboard tack towards a small round island which lay to the east of Inishrua. "That's Inishgorm," said Priscilla.
Most of them neither write nor receive any letters at all. A post twice a week is quite sufficient for their needs, and Michael Kane is not very well paid for carrying the lean letter bag. But he makes a little money by taking parcels across to the island. The people of Inishrua grow, catch or shoot most of the things they want; but they cannot produce their own tea, tobacco, sugar or flour.
But Father McFadden had lived so long on Inishrua that he had lost respect for law and perhaps forgotten what the law was. Besides, Andrew was King of the island by right of popular assent, and what is the use of being a king if you cannot override a tiresome law? The marriage took place that afternoon, and Miss Clarence was present, acting as a kind of bridesmaid.
He was a grave and silent young man who read small books about Socialism. Michael Kane was grey-haired, much battered by the weather and rich in experience of life. He was garrulous and took a humorous view of most things, even of Peter Gahan's Socialism. There are, perhaps, two hundred people living on Inishrua, but they do not receive many letters. Nor do they write many.
Frank, now beginning to enjoy his position thoroughly, let the boat away, eased off his sheet and ran down the passage between Inishrua and Knockilaun, the next island to the northward. Cattle browsed peacefully in the fields. A dog rushed from a cottage door and barked. Two children came down to the shore and gazed at the boat curiously. There was no encampment on either island.
Week after week he made his journeys to Inishrua without a single passenger. Towards the middle of August he began to give up hope altogether. He and Peter sat together one morning on the end of the pier. The red post boat hung at her moorings outside the little harbour.
The engine throbbed and the screw under the rudder revolved slowly. The boat slid forward, gathering speed, and headed out to sea for Inishrua. Michael Kane began to talk.
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