“He’s coming with us,” said Norah, with decision. “Say you are, Sir John—please!” “Well, indeed, I begin to think I am,” O’Neill answered. “I was getting terribly old when you invaded Donegal, but now I believe I shall soon be nearly as young as Mr. Linton! At any rate, I might follow you out.” But the boys protested, arguing that there was no point in travelling alone when they might make a family party. “It would be miles jollier,” said Wally. “Then we could ‘personally conduct’ you to Billabong, and you would have the unforgettable experience of seeing Brownie go mad. I’m quite certain she and Murty will be delirious on the day that Norah comes marching home again!” So they planned happily, in gay defiance of the guns thundering across the Channel. That sullen menace was only a fortnight ahead, and already Norah dreamed of it at night. But in the daytime it was better to pretend that it did not exist. Con was left with the motor, to administer what “first-aid” was possible: and after lunch the rest of the party set off along the road to Carrignarone, which was reached after an easy walk of an hour and a half. It was a little fishing-village, boasting a better inn than others of its type, since in normal years the sport to be obtained brought a small harvest of visitors. War, however, had meant lean times—wherefore the people of the inn fell thankfully on the windfall afforded them by a stranded party of six, and ran three ways at once in preparing for their comfort. A cart, with a couple of strong horses, was forthcoming, and under the charge of Jim and Wally, set off to the rescue of the motor—which was eventually towed into the village, where it caused what the war-reports term “a certain liveliness.” At the steering-wheel sat Con, a picture of humiliation—deepening to disgust when the carter politely offered him a whip! “Them machines do be all very well to play with, for genthry an’ for them that have too much money,” said the carter, drawing a distinction that was not lost on his hearers. “But ’tis mighty glad they are of the ould horses when annything goes wrong with the works!” Which was so obviously true at the moment that no one had any spirit to contradict him. CHAPTER XIII THE CAVE AMONG THE ROCKS “The great waves of the Atlantic sweep storming on their way, Shining green and silver with the hidden herring-shoal; But the Little Waves of Breffny have drenched my heart in spray And the Little Waves of Breffny go stumbling through my soul.” EVA GORE-BOOTH. WALLY ran out upon a point of rock that ended abruptly in a sheer face, under which the outgoing tide ran swiftly, deep and green. For a moment he stood motionless, his slim body gleaming white against sea and rock; then he curved forward and shot into the water in a clean dive that made scarcely any splash. He reappeared, shaking the water from his eyes, his brown face glowing.