ties superimposed on clan clannishness, which is the blood heritage of
the Highland Scotch, made it impossible for him to feel otherwise. That
blow with a pike pole was a blow directed at his own face. He took up
his father's feud instinctively, not even stopping to consider whether
that was his father's wish or intent.

He got up out of his chair at last and went outside, down to where the
Cove waters, on a rising tide, lapped at the front of a rude shed. Under
this shed, secure on a row of keel-blocks, rested a small
knockabout-rigged boat, stowed away from wind and weather, her single
mast, boom, and gaff unshipped and slung to rafters, her sail and
running gear folded and coiled and hung beyond the wood-rats' teeth.
Beside this sailing craft lay a long blue dugout, also on blocks, half
filled with water to keep it from checking.

These things belonged to him. He had left them lying about when he went
away to France. And old Donald had put them here safely against his
return. Jack stared at them, blinking. He was full of a dumb protest. It
didn't seem right. Nothing seemed right. In young MacRae's mind there
was nothing terrible about death. He had become used to that. But he had
imagination. He could see his father going on day after day, month after
month, year after year, enduring, uncomplaining. Gauged by what his
father had written, by what Dolly Ferrara had supplied when he
questioned her, these last months must have been gray indeed. And he had
died without hope or comfort or a sight of his son.

That was what made young MacRae blink and struggle with a lump in his
throat. It hurt.

He walked away around the end of the Cove without definite objective. He