ndeed, very many kings left in
the world now. Peter Gahan gave a vicious dab at his engine with his
oil-can, and then emerged feet first from the shelter of the fore deck.
This talk about kings irritated him.

"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 st