“It’s the publican down by the harbour Michael Kane’s speaking about,” he said. “King, indeed! What is he, only an old man who’s a deal too fat!”
“He may be fat,” said Michael; “but if he is, he’s not the first fat man to get married. 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.
“The woman he’s marrying,” said Michael, “is one by the name of Mary Nally, the same that keeps the post-office and sells tobacco and tea and suchlike.”
“If he’s marrying her to-day,” said Peter Gahan, “it’s the first I heard of it.”
“That may be,” said Michael, “but if you was to read less you’d maybe hear more. You’d hardly believe,” he turned to Miss Clarence with a smile—“you’d hardly believe the time that young fellow wastes reading books and the like. There isn’t a day passes without he’d be reading something, good or bad.”
Peter Gahan, thoroughly disgusted, crept under the fore deck again and squirted drops of oil out of his can.
Miss Clarence ought to have been interested in the fact that the young boatman was fond of reading. His tastes in literature and his eagerness for knowledge and culture would have provided excellent matter for an article. But the prospect of a royal marriage on Inishrua excited her, and she had no curiosity left for Peter Gahan and his books. She asked a string of eager questions about the festivities. Michael was perfectly willing to supply her with information; indeed, the voyage was not long enough for all her questions and his answers. Before the subject was exhausted the boat swung round a rocky point into the bay where the Inishrua harbour lies.
“You see the white cottage with the double gable, Miss,” said Michael. “Well, it’s there Mary Nally lives. And that young lad crossing the field is her brother coming down for the post-bag. The yellow house with the slates on it is where the king lives. It’s the only slated house they have on the island. God help them!”
Peter Gahan slowed and then stopped his engine. The boat slipped along a grey stone pier. Michael stepped ashore and made fast a couple of ropes. Then he gave his hand to Miss Clarence and helped her to disembark.