“The rats that have the island very nearly eaten,” said Priscilla.
“Sorra the rat ever I saw on Inishbawn, only one that came out in the boat one day along with a sack of yellow meal my da was bringing home from the quay; and I killed it myself with the slap of a loy.”
“I just thought Peter Walsh was telling me a lie about the rats,” said Priscilla. “But if it wasn’t rats will you tell me why your father wouldn’t let them camp on Inishbawn?”
“He said it would be better for them not,” said Jimmy, “on account of there being fever on it, for fear they might catch it and maybe die.”
“What fever?”
“I don’t rightly know the name of it; but sure my ma is covered thick with yellow spots the size of a sixpence or bigger; and the young lads is worse. The cries of them at night would make you turn round on your bed pitying them.”
“Do you expect me to believe all that?” said Priscilla.
“Three times my da was in for the doctor,” said Jimmy, “and the third time he fetched out a powerful fine bottle that he bought in Brannigan’s, but it was no more use to them than water. Is it likely now that he’d allow a strange lady and a gentleman to come to the island, and them not knowing? He wouldn’t do it for a hundred pounds.”
“If you’re going on talking that kind of way there’s not much use my asking you any more questions. But I’d like very much to know where those camping people are now.”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” said Jimmy, “but they’re drowned. The planks of that old boat of Flanagan’s is opened so as you could see the daylight in between every one of them, and it would take a man with a can to be bailing the whole time you’d be going anywhere in her; let alone that the gentleman——”