On the beach at Inishbawn when the boat grounded, were Lady Isabel, Mrs. Kinsella with her baby, the three small Kinsella boys, Frank Mannix, who, to the further injury of his ankle, had hobbled down the hill, and in the far background, the Reverend Barnabas Pennefather. Lady Isabel rushed upon her father, flung her arms round his neck and kissed him passionately with tears in her eyes. Lord Torrington did not seem particularly pleased to see her. “Hang it all, Isabel,” he said, “I’m surely wet enough. Don’t make me worse by slobbering over me. There’s nothing to cry about and no necessity for kissing.” “Mrs. Kinsella,” said Priscilla, “go you straight up to the house and get out your husband’s Sunday clothes. If he hasn’t any Sunday clothes, get blankets and throw a couple of sods of turf on the fire.” “Glory be to God!” said Mrs. Kinsella. Priscilla took Joseph Antony by the arm and led him a little apart from the group on the beach. “Get some whisky,” she said, “as quick as you can.” “Whisky!” said Kinsella blankly. “Yes, whisky. Bring it in a tin can or anything else that comes handy.” “Is it a tin can full of whisky? Sure, where could I get the like? Or for the matter of that where would I get a thimble full? Is it likely now that there’d be a tin can full of whisky on Inishbawn?” Priscilla stamped her foot. “You’ve got quarts,” she said, “and gallons.” “Arrah, talk sense,” said Kinsella. “Very well,” said Priscilla. “I don’t want to give you away, but rather than see Lord Torrington sink into his grave with rheumatic fever for want of a drop of whisky I’ll expose you publicly. Cousin Frank, come here.” “Whist, Miss, whist! Sure if I had the whisky I’d give it to you.” Lord Torrington, with Lady Isabel weeping beside him, was on his way up to the Kinsellas’ cottage. Frank was speaking earnestly to Mr. Pennefather, who seemed disinclined to follow his father-in-law. When he heard Priscilla calling to him he hobbled towards her. “Cousin Frank,” she said, “here’s a man who grudges poor Lord Torrington a drop of whisky to save his life, although for weeks past he has been--what is it you do when you make whisky? I forget the word. It isn’t brew.” Frank, vaguely recollecting the advertisements which appear in our papers, suggested that the word was required “pot”. Priscilla pointed an accusing finger at Kinsella. “Here’s a man,” she said, “who for the last fortnight has been potting whisky--what a fool you are, Cousin Frank! Distil is the word. Joseph Antony Kinsella has been distilling whisky on this island for the last month as hard as ever he could. He’s been shipping barrels full of it underneath loads of gravel into Rosnacree, and now he’s trying to pretend he hasn’t got any. Did you ever hear such utter rot in your life? I’m not telling Lord Torrington yet, Joseph Antony; but in a minute or two I will unless you go and get a good can full.”