Meanwhile a boat from the trawler fished out McKay, wrapped him in red-hot blankets, pried open his blue lips, and tried to fill him full of boiling rum. Then he came to life. But those honest fishermen knew he had gone stark mad because he struck at the pannikin of steaming rum and cursed them vigorously for their kindness. And only a madman could so conduct himself toward a pannikin of steaming rum. They understood that perfectly. And, understanding it, they piled more hot blankets upon the struggling form of Kay McKay and roped him to his bunk. Toward evening, becoming not only coherent but frightfully emphatic, they released McKay. "What's this damn place?" he shouted. "Strathlone Firth," they said. "That's my country!" he raged. "I want to go ashore!" They were quite ready to be rid of the cracked Yankee, and told him so. "And the boats? How about them?" he demanded. "All in the Firth, sir." "Any women lost?" "None, sir." At that, struggling into his clothes, he began to shed gold sovereigns from his ripped money-belt all over the cabin. Weatherbeaten fingers groped to restore the money to him. But it was quite evident that the young man was mad. He wouldn't take it. And in his crazy way he seemed very happy, telling them what fine lads they were and that not only Scotland but the world ought to be proud of them, and that he was about to begin to live the most wonderful life that any man had ever lived as soon as he got ashore. "Because," he explained, as he swung off and dropped into the small boat alongside, "I've taken a look into hell and I've had a glimpse of heaven, but the earth has got them both stung to death, and I like it and I'm going to settle down on it and live awhile. You don't get me, do you?" They did not. "It doesn't matter. You're a fine lot of lads. Good luck!" And so they were rid of their Yankee lunatic. On the Firth Quay and along the docks all the inhabitants of Glenark and Strathlone were gathered to watch the boats come in with living, with dead, or merely the news of the seafight off the grey head of Strathlone. At the foot of the slippery waterstairs, green with slime, McKay, grasping the worn rail, lifted his head and looked up into the faces of the waiting crowd. And saw the face of her he was looking for among them. He went up slowly. She pushed through the throng, descended the steps, and placed one arm around him. "Thanks, Eve," he said cheerfully. "Are you all right?" "All right, Kay. Are you hurt?" "No.... I know this place. There's an inn ... if you'll give me your arm--it's just across the street." They went very leisurely, her arm under his--and his face, suddenly colourless, half-resting against her shoulder. CHAPTER V ISLA WATER