CHAPTER FOUR.
THE SCOTCH SAILOR'S YARN.
All about Slievochan, there was no lassie like Maggie Miller. Herfather was a kind o' overlooker to the Laird o' Taggart, and so wasreckoned weel-to-do. He was an elder o' the kirk, too, mind ye, and hada farm o' his ain--or what was called a farm, though it was no mair thanmight be a sma' holding, with a kye or twa, and fowls and live-stock,and a bit o' pasture, and eneugh to butter the bannocks and give aflavour to the parritch; so that he was called a weel-to-do man. Idoubt if any of ye know Slievochan; and it's no deal likely ye would,for it's but a by-place where, down to the village, a few fisher-bodieslive; and up beyant the hills an' the cliff is the sma' farmers and thelaird's folk, with just the kirk an' the bit shops, and beyond that thekirk itself, weel out o' sight o' the little whusky shop; and beyant thewidow Gillespie's "Herrin' Boat Inn," where our fishers go at times,when they ha'e drunk out the ale at their own place, "The Coil," or,maybe, tasted a runnel o' hollands or brandy, that has no paid theexciseman, or got the King's mark upo' it.
For there's strange ways amang the fisherfolk? and between them and thevillage is a wide difference; though you'll mind that some o' the bodieswi' a boat o' their ain and a cottage that's as well keepit as they thatwas built by the laird himsel'--and perhaps a store o' claes and linen,and household goods, and a bit o' siller put by at interest--may hold uptheir heads even wi' men like Donald Miller, or may speer a word to theminister, or even ask him to taste a glass of _eau-de-vie_, when he gaesdoon for pastoral veesitation. But, hoot! I'm clavering o' the oldplace as it was above fifty years ago, when I was workin' wi' my uncle,Ivan Dhu, and my Aunt Tibby sat at the door, knit, knit, knitting, asshe watched for our comin' hame, and went in to make the parritch orskim the sheep's-head broth, directly the jib o' the _Robert Bruce_cocked over the ridge, and came tackin' round the Ness o' Slievochan,with uncle and me looking to the tackle and the gear, and my braw youngcousin Rab at the tiller, wi' his bonnie fair face an' clustering curls,all blowing in the breeze that lifted us out o' the surf, and sent us inwith a whistle an' a swirl, till the keel was ready to grate upon thebeach. Rab was only eighteen, and we were great friends--though I wasan orphan bairn, and Uncle Ivan had taken me and brought me up--so thathis boy might have been jealous, but there was no jealousy in him.Uncle was a bachelor when I first went to him, a little raw lad, fromInverness, and I'd learnt to manage a boat and do fisherman's workbefore Rab came, so that I grew to be a strapping lad, and was able toteach him in his turn. We loved each other weel, Rab and I; and quietAuntie Tibbie used to sit knitting, and watch us both with a smile; andsilent Uncle Ivan, with his great limbs, and dark face, and blacklocks--though he gave me to know that Rab would have the boat one day,if not a bigger one or two--would grip my hand and say, "Stick to theladdie, if aught suld happen, Sandy; for if ye're no my son, ye're nextto him, and not much further frae my heart."
Weel--but about Maggie Miller! Her father, you observe, was a man o'some substance, and one trusted by the laird; so that the minister, andthe bailie o' the nearest town, an' Mrs Gillespie, an' the farmers all,ca'd him Mister; and my Uncle Ivan, who had his pounds away in the bank,ca'd him Mister, too, and would send me or Rab up with a creel o' fishwhen we had a fine take, now and then; so that we were on a footing ofvisitors; and Maggie would stand and laugh and talk with me, and wouldgie Rab a blink, and a rose-blush, and a smile that made us all laughtaegither, till I used to wonder why it was that I wasn't one ofMaggie's lovers--of which she had three already, not counting Rab, whowas two years younger than she, and, of course, was lookin' at her as aboy of eighteen always looks at a girl of twenty, too shy to speak, andtoo much in love to keep silent, and so talking to anybody who'll listento him, which in Rab's case was me.
It wasn't much in my mind that the boy loved her, but someway I'd gotused to thinking of him and her at the same time; and many a time I'vebrought her home some trifle that I got from one of the coastmen--whenthey brought in a runlet or two of spirits, or lace, and tabacker--someFrench gewgaw or a handkerchief; and a good deal of my spare money wentthat way, for Uncle Ivan kept us pretty short of spending. It was likegiving it to Rab, I thought; but yet I noticed once or twice that theboy looked serious when I showed him anything to give to Maggie, thoughI often asked him if he'd give it to her himself.
Maybe I'd ha' been less easy if there had seemed to me more than a lad'sliking and a lassie's pleasure, that meant little of lasting; for therewere two men, if not three, hankering about Donald Miller's house suchtimes as they could make excuse to gae there, an' one o' them madebelieve often enough, for he was head keeper to the laird on someshootin's that lay an hour's stout walking from Slievaloch; an' now itwas a couple o' rabbits for Mistress Miller, or a word or twa withDonald about the bit cover for game beyond the big house; but a' thetime he sat an' smoked his tabacker, or took a sup o' parritch orsowans, or a dish o' herrin', he'd have an eye to Maggie. An evil eyeit was, too, for he was a lowerin' carl, and 'twas said that he was morepoacher than keeper; while some folk (and I was one) knew well thatthere was anither business brought him round toward Slievaloch. I shameto say it, but at that time--ye ken I speak of nigh sixty year ago--there was a smoke to be seen coming out frae a neuk i' the hills at awild place where there seemed to be naething but granite and bracken,and a shanty or two, for shelter to the men quarrying the granite. Butit wasna frae the huts that the smoke rose. A good two mile awa' therewas a stone cottie, more like a cave, as though it had been burrowed outby wind and water, and got closed in wi' boulders o' rock, and coveredwith earth and broom, so that naebody could see how it led by a hole i'the prong o' the hill to just sic anither hut, and neither of the twa tobe seen, except by goin' o'er the hill-side. In this second one therewas a fire smoulderin' under a furnace, and a' the place dark and smoky,and fu' o' the reek o' sma'-still whisky, that had nae paid the king'sduty; an' on a cowhide i' the corner crouched auld Birnie, as blear andwithered as a dried haddie, waitin' for his wife to come trudgin' backwi' silver shillin's and the empty leather bottle of twa gallons thatshe'd carried out full i' the mornin', under her lang, patched cloak, orhid awa' in the loose kindlin' wood at the bottom o' the ricketin' cart.It was suspected that Rory Smith, the keeper, was in league wi' auldBirnie in this sma' still, and that both he an' the o'erseer o' thequarrymen--a Welsh body o' the name o' Preece--knew weel enough whatwent wi' the whisky. The two men were as unlike as a raven and an owl;Smith bein' suspectit of half gipsy blood--though few men daur say so tohis face, for he'd a heavy hand an' a look in his face that bodedmischief--while Preece was a slow, heavy-eyed, quiet body, short an'square-built, and wi' a still tongue an' decent, careful ways, that yetkept his rough men in order, and got him speech of the tradefolk at thevillage where he lodged such times as he wasna' up at the quarry.
These were the twa that went each in his own fashion to visit DonaldMiller, and to cast an eye on Maggie; but neither o' them could boast ofmuch encouragement, least of all the keeper, who saw that the lassieshrank from him, and would hae no word to say when he tried to win herwi' owches, an' fairin's, an' even costlier gifs frae Edinbro' itsel',which she refused, sayin' he maun keep them till he foun' a lassie o'his ain. Preece thought it mare prudent to wait till Smith was out o'the way; an' both of them, as I foun' out after long years, were jealouso' me for seemin' to find mair favour wi' Maggie, an' carryin' her thelittle presents that I told ye of, though never a word o' love-makingpassed my lips; and perhaps baith o' us thought more o' my cousin Rabthan o' each other, though had it nae been for Rab, mind ye, I'll no saythat there'd been so clear a stage for the other twa if Maggie had beenas winsome when I went to pay my respects to her parents, and laughedwi' her at the door.
Weel, it was just on one o' the occasions when I was on my way to thehouse, one evening in the airly summer, carrying with me a gaudynecklace o' shining beads that I'd bought of a packman at Farmer Nicol'sshearin', whaur I'd been the day before. I'd shown the toy to mystep-mother, and uncle, and to R
ab too, and had asked him to take it toMaggie himsel'; but he put me off, sayin' that he'd rather not be amangthem that was gi'en and gi'en sma' things, for he'd gied her the best o'himsel' a'reedy. It was, maybe, to ponder over these words that I tookthe way up the steep bye-path that led up the beach, an' so zig-zagalong the cliff's edge. There was a sort o' neuk beside a turn o' thispath, where was a big stane, that one might sit upon, and so lose sighto' everything but the distant sea an' the beach below, to which therocks shelved down, rugged an' bare in places, an' in others wi' a tossan' tangle o' weed and brushwood, where there was a hollow in the faceof the cliff.
There I sat, an' sat, and felt all strange an' drowsy, dreamin' aboutRab an' Maggie, but not rightly thinking o' anything; but holding in myhand the bauble that I had taken out o' my pocket to look at. Night wascomin' down quick out at sea, and the mist was creepin' over the hills,when I heard a man's footstep on the path, and stood up to see who came.
No need to look twice; 'twas Rory Smith, the keeper, trampling quick andheavy, and with a heavy cudgel in his clenched hands--a murderous lookin his eyes.
He turned upon me, clutching his stick.
"Whaur are ye goin'?" he said, "and who's that for?" pointin' to thenecklace that hung on my fingers.
"I'm no here to answer questions," answered I; "but ye can know for a'that, or ye can turn back, and see for yoursel'."
"Go, if ye daur!" he shrieked; "for it shall be but one o' us, if ye'llno turn about the way I'm walkin'. It's through you, is it, that Maggieflouts me, an' throws back my gifts, that are o' mair cost than ye canearn, ye loupin' beggar?"
"Hand off!" I shouted; "or I'll no answer for mysel'," for he waspressin' on, an' there was no room for a struggle between the rock an'the road's edge. "Haud off, or not one, but baith, may make a turn toomany."
"Gie me that trash," he said, making a snatch toward the necklace. "Gieit me, and go no more to Maggie's house--you nor your baby cousin Rab.Gie it me, I say!"
He was upon me before I could answer him, mad wi' passion and wi'whisky, and dealt me a heavy blow upon the head; but I was quicker andstronger than he, and, before he could repeat it, had him by wrist andshoulder. As I've said, 'twas no place to wrestle in, and when we bothcame to grips, we had but one scuffle, and then our footing was gone,and I lost him and myself, too--lost sense, and hearing, and a' things.
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The sun was high in the sky, when I came to myself--shining like agolden shield over the blue sea, and the wavin' grass and heather; and Icould just see the ripple o' the waves and the fleece o' white cloudsfar away, but naething else.
It was a while before I could do that, for I seemed to be covered wi'dried grass and leaves above my chin as I lay there in a deep cleft inthe cliff side, mid a tangle of stalks an' roots, and dry driftsand,that had got into my claes, and tilled my ears and eyes. I was like aman paralysed, too; and had to move an inch at a time, till I could rub,first my arms, an' then, when I had got upon one elbow, give my legs aturn, and then my back. The first thing I did was to feel if thenecklace was on my wrist still; but it had gone; dropped off and lost inthe scuffle. Next I crawled to the edge of the hole, and peered downthe cliff side, and all round, as far as I could see, to look for thebody of Rory Smith, living or dead.
I could not tell how he had fallen; but unless he had clutched at thelong weed, or reached a cliff lower down, he'd hardly be alive after awhole night; for, had he fallen on the beach, and been disabled, hisbody was now under the water, above which the sea-birds wheeled andpiped in the bright morning air.
Perhaps he had cried out, and help had come, while I lay senseless.However it was, I must get to the village and see what could be done.The quickest way was to climb up to the path again, and so get towardthe long street o' Slievochan, nearer than going back to find uncle an'Rab, who'd most likely be at Donald Miller's to look for me.
It was strange to think that I should have been fightin' for Maggie, an'all the time was the only one that made no claim to be her lover. Ibegan to wonder whether, after all, the lassie might have understood medifferent, and had been waitin' for me to speak out, preferrin' me toRab even, and wonderin' why I had his name always foremost. The thoughtwasna' a good one, for I felt a kind of sudden fancy to win the girl,even though I couldna say I loved her; indeed, I'd thought of her onlyas a winsome child; and, lately, had never spoke of her to Rab, exceptwi' caution, for I could see that the puir laddie was sair in airnest.Somehow, the thought o' my bein' Maggie's lover, though I put it fraeme, caused me for a moment to wonder what she'd say to me if she saw meall dusty, and with torn clothes and grimy face. This made me look atmy clothes, and, wi' a sort o' wonder, I found that my pilot coat hadgot all brown at the back, where I lay upon it, and broke as though ithad been scorched. My shoes, too, were all dry and stiff; and as Ibegan to climb the cliff, very slowly an' painfully, my shirt an'trousers gave way at knees and elbows. I sat down on the bank of thepath after I'd reached it, a'most dead with faintness an' hunger, so putmy hand in my pocket to find my pipe. It was there, sure enough, alongwi' my steel bacca-box, and there was bacca there too, an' a bit o'flint to get a light. The bacca was dry as powder, but it eased thegnawin' of my limbs, and I tottered on.
On to the first cottages, leading to the main street, where I meant togo first to Mrs Gillespie's, and find some of the fishermen to searchthe cliff for the keeper. As I came nearer to those cottages, I couldsee that something was stirring in the village, for women an' bairnswere all out in the street, an' in their best claes; and across thestreet farther away was a rope bearin' a great flag an' bunches ofheather, an' the people all about Mrs Gillespie's door, an' the by-wayleadin' toward Donald Miller's cottage, and so right up to the kirk. Icould see a' this only when I got closer; but I could na' turn up thehigh street. A kind o' fear an' wonder kept me back, an' more than onceI shut my e'en, and stretchit oot my arms all round, to feel whether Iwas na' dreamin' it all in the hole of the cliff side, or, maybe, in mybunk at hame, or on the deck of the _Robert Bruce_, wi' Rab at thetiller, an' uncle smoking forrard.
I turned up a by-way, and got near to the church itsel', where a man andwoman--strangers to me--were leanin' against the wall, talkin'. Ithought I knew everybody in the place; but these people had just comeout o' a cottage that belonged to auld Nannie Dun, and had turned thekey o' the door as though they lived there, at the sicht o' me comingalong the path.
They eyed me over, too, as I came near, and answered wi' caution, when Iasked what was goin' on the day.
"Weel, it's a weddin' in the kirk," says the wife, "an' sae lang waitedfor that it's little wonder a' the toon is oot to give joy to the bonniebride an' groom. Ye're a stranger, and where may ye come frae?"
"Nae, nae," I said, between a laugh an' a fright. "Ae body kens mehereabout; but where's auld Nannie, that ye've come to see to-day;she'll know me."
The couple looked skeerit. "Auld Nannie Dun was deed an' buried sixyears ago come July," said the woman. "Ye've been long away frae thistoon, I'm thinkin'."
"Frae this _village_," says I. "Slievochan's na' a toon."
"'Deed, but it is, though, since the auld laird's death, and the newstreet was built, two years' ago; when Donal' Miller an' Ivan Dhu boughtthe land that it stands on for a portion for son an' daughter--but therethey come."
"Just one moment," I cried, clutching the man by the arm. "Will yekindly tell me the day an' the year?"
"What day, mon?" says he, lookin' at me in doubt.
"This present day o' the month and the year. Is it auchteen hunnerdsaxteen?"
"Hoot, mon!" cried the fellow, gettin' away frae me. "Nae; but thethird June, auchteen hunnerd twenty-sax. Ha'e ye been asleep these tenyears?"
I had!
It rushed upon me a' o' a sudden. My claes like tinder; the bed o' dryleaves; my shrivelled boots; the bacca in powder. There, in that caveo' the cliff I'd slept in a trance, with ne'er a dre
am to know o', an'the world had gone round while I stoppit still. There was a soun' o'talking an' laugh in' at the kirk door, an' then a shout, as a band o'fishermen came out, all in their best rig; an' then a shoal of prettylassies, an' then my uncle Ivan, an' Mistress Miller--(Old Donald wasdeed, then, I thought); and then the bailie an' my Aunt Tibbie; and,after all, Rab an' Maggie--he looking a grand, noble man, for he was nolonger a boy; but wi' his father's strength, and Aunt Tibbie's soft,tender smile; an' she--Maggie, I mean--older an' paler; but wi' a lightin her een, an' a lovin' look upon her face, that made me forget mysel'in joy to think how they had come together at last, whatever might havehappened in the ten years.
But what would happen if I should be seen by the bailie, starin' thereat the church porch, in my rags and unkempt hair an' beard--I, that hadperhaps been sought for, and might be suspectit?--Ah! that wasdreadfu'!--suspectit o' murder! for where was Rory Smith?--and who couldtell the true tale but me?
I might be recognised in a minute; for how did I know whether I wasaltered?--and I could remember half the men who were there shouting, andhalf the women claverin' in the kirkyard. I crept away.
The best thing I could do was to make off down to the fisher village onthe beach; for everybody had come up to the wedding, and I could gain myuncle's house without meeting any one that I knew. So crammin' what wasleft of my bacca into my pipe, I turned down a lane, and could see theman and woman that I'd spoken to stopping to look after me.
I was wrong in the thinking that I should reach my uncle's houseunknown. At all events, I was known after I'd entered the house, thoughthere was naebody there. The first thing I did was to stir up theembers o' the fire, for I was chilled, though it was a warm summer'sday; then I cut a slice from the loaf, and took a mug o' milk from thepan; an' then went to the ben, to see after washing myself, and go on tomy ain auld room, to look what had come o' my claes.
The room was altered, but the chest was there; and though my _men's_claes had gone, some of my _boy's_ claes were there; an' even some ofthem that I wore as a child, when Aunt Tibbie made me a new suit. I wasthocht to be dead, then, but wasna' forgotten.
If a mon can cry, it does him a world o' good at times--that is, if hedoesna' cry much nor often. I cried, and it did me good. Then I wentup to the little bit o' broken glass that was nailed to the wa' to speerwhat like I was. My hair had began to whiten--bleached, maybe, by thesea air. I had a strange, wild look, for hair and beard had grown alltangled, and my face was grey instead of red-brown, as it once was.Would my uncle know me?
When I went down again to eat some more bread, and to look for a littlewhisky to put wi' the milk, there was a man's face peerin' through thewindow; and before I could stir, the door-latch clicked, and in walkedmy uncle Ivan. I had started to my feet, and my uncle strode in, withhis hand uplifted, as if to strike me.
I never stirred, but looked at him full in the eyes.
His hand fell to his side.
"What brings ye here frae the dead, or from waur than the dead, SandyMacpherson?" he exclaimed, hoarsely.
"I've no been that far; if they that I'd have looked for had looked forme," I answered. "If Rory Smith is alive, he can tell ye about it; orif his dead body's been found, I'll tell my story over that afore allSlievochan."
"Then it was you, after all?" said my uncle, sinking into a seat, andleaning his head on his hands. "An' I've stood up for ye, and sworethat if there was foul play 'twas he, and not you--or maybe Preece, asyour aunt thocht at first, because he had the necklace. Can ye, an'will ye, clear up this dreadfu' mystery?"
"Uncle Ivan," I said, takin' him by both hands; "look at my face andhair; look close at my claes and shoon! Come wi' me, and bring otherstoo, to the cliff face below the sitting-stone in the turn o' the path--and then it's just possible, but it's no likely, ye'll believe what Ihave to tell. First, let me say to ye, I'm innocent o' any crime. Doye believe that?"
My uncle lookit at me long and hard, and I grippit his hands tight.
"I do," he said, at last.
A weight sprung off my heart.
"Uncle, did I ever tell ye a lee?"
"Never that I ken."
"Never--never! I kenned he wud come back!" said another voice.
It was Aunt Tibbie, and she took me in her arms. "I believed ye to beinnocent, Sandy; and sae did Rab, and a many more," she said. "Butwhere ha' ye been?"
"Ye'll no believe me, gin' I tell ye. I don't wonder at that. Ye can'tbelieve it, mebbe, but I'll tell ye."
"It's naething wrong, Sandy?" said Aunt Tibbie.
"Nae, naething but laziness, an' I couldna help that. I've beenasleep--in a traunce--in a stupor--like a toad in a stane, for a' theseyears, an' have come to life this verra day!"
Then I told them all about it; and sic things as traunces--though not,maybe, to last as long as mine--had been heard o' before, and they couldnot but believe it; but they were awa' again to Rab's wedding, fraewhich they'd come hame only to fetch a silver cup, that was to drink thehealths o' the bride and bridegroom.
"Auntie! where's my silver mug, that I won at the games at the laird'shair'st?" I asked.
"Safe put away wi' the chaney, lad, an' noo it's yours again."
"Auntie, wad ye tak it as my gift ta Maggie? and, uncle, will ye gie mymessage to Rab, that I'll no' stay here to bring an ill name orsuspicion on him or his; but if he'd come an' gie me his hand before I'mawa'?--t'will be little to him, and much to me, though I've been true tohim for a whole lifetime--what's gane of it, at least."
So auntie took the silver mug, and they both left me; but not till I hadheard how, twa days after I had gane, David Preece had been to DonaldMiller's cottage an' offered Maggie a necklace o' gaudy beads, and howMaggie handed them back tae him, though he told her he was to leaveSlievochan next day. Aunt Tibbie heard o' this: and when Maggie toldwhat was the like o' the bauble, there was a cry for Preece, till it washeard how Rory Smith hadna' been seen for those three days, and that Ihadna' been found or heard o'.
So, ye ken, it was which o' us should come back first wad be ca'd tofind the other twa.
I sat brood--broodin', waiting for aunt and uncle to return. Eatin' anddrinkin', and smokin' (for there was beef an' whisky, and a cold pie o'auntie's making); but I wadna' change my claes till they should gae wi'me to the cliff face.
Before the sun was off the sea, I heard a sound of voices outside; andin a minute I had a hand o' Rab, and a hand o' Maggie and her mither,an' half-a-dozen o' our fishers round us who'd known me from a laddie;and then uncle said, "Now let us away to the cliff path before any o'the rest come back fra the wedding. While they think Rab and Maggie haegone off o' the sly, as, indeed, they hae, and are ganging ower to theisland in the new boat to Rab's cottie."
"'Twas gran' o' ye, Rab, and o' ye, too, Maggie, to come to see me onyour weddin'-day," I said. "I'll no forget it when I'm far awa."
"I would ha' been no gran' not to ha' come," said Rab, "to tell ourbrither that we stan' against a' that daur accuse him o' wrang. Whyneed ye gae, Sandy? Stay and tak' the brunt o't."
"An' for why, Rab? To bring trouble an' cold looks upo' them that I'das sune die as cause grief to, an' that when there's no need o' me towork here. Nae, nae, I'm awa' to sea, Rab; an' when I come hame, onlyfriends need know who 'tis, except, indeed, I suld find Rory Smith alivein my travels; and, who knows, but I may find puir David Preece, and getmy necklace back."
"Dinna touch it--dinna touch it!" said Aunt Tibbie, shudderin'.
So we a' went to the cliff, and there, standin' by the stane, in mywithered claes and puckered shoon, and wi' my whitened face an' a', Itold them again; and we men went down to the hole on the cliff side,while the women sat on the stane above, and we shook hands all round.
That same evening, two boats shot out o' our little bay, the first one anew craft, Rab's ain, wi' a gran' flag flying, and carrying him an' hisbonnie bride hame. Auntie and Mistress Miller were with us; unclesitting by me while I stood at the tiller, and
two men forward. Behindit was a row-boat, wi' a piper at the prow, playin' the bride hame. Inthis boat we a' went back to Slievochan, except Rab and Maggie; and oncemore I slept in my old room till mornin'; when, wi' a fit-out o' claes,and some money that I was to repay as soon as I could draw my wages, Iset out for England.
It was when the Polar Expedition of 1827 was getting ready, and I wasone o' them that joined it, though ye may not know my name.
I'll no' describe onything o' that voyage, sin' ye will ha' it that I'mrepeatin' frae book; but I'm near to the end o' my yarn now. When wemet the last o' the natives near to the Pole, there was a party came outto barter with us, and one man came forward to speak English, which hedid sae weel that we lookit hard at him. We had little to barter atthat time, but presently this fellow pulls out something frae his pouch,an' holds it up by the end, and ye'll no believe it, but there was therow o' beads that had nigh lost me my life, and had quite lost me myhame above ten years before! Up to him I strode. "David Preece," Ishouted in his ear, "ye can gae back to Slievochan; for 'twas no youthat killit Rory Smith, nor that stole my present, meant for MaggieMiller."
"No," said Preece, slowly, after looking round to see whether any of theEsquimaux noticed him; "and I'll tell you, for your comfort, that youdidn't kill Rory Smith neither; for when I went to the great Americanplains, after leaving Scotland, and finishing a job in Cornwall, I wentacross with a party of trappers and Indians, and there was Rory sittingon a mustang, and looking for all the world like a Mexikin. I shallcome home with you now, and bring this necklace with me. The peoplehere think it's a charm."
As Sandy Macpherson ceased, and his eyes came back out of space, the menfound their tongues.
"And did he come back, Sandy?"
"Yes; but not with me."
"And did you go back to what d'ye call it--Slievochan?"
"Of course I did, and left a nest-egg for Rab and Maggie's eldest boy."
"And that was how long ago?"
"Above thirty years."
"And have you been since?"
"Of course; to leave a dowry for _his_ eldest _girl_."
"And how long's that ago?"
"Say ten years."
"Then you haven't been to sleep since?"
"Haven't I though! I've had thirty years of it, in three differenttimes; else how should I be eighty year old, and yet out here."
"Well, of all the yarns--" began Bostock.
"Hoot! of a' the yarns and a' the yarns! What's wrang wi' ye? Wad yehae a Scot's yarn wi'out plenty o' twist tae't?"
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"Here, stop!" cried the doctor--"stop, man! You haven't told us how yougot frozen in here. Don't say you found the North Pole?"
"No fear, doctor," I said, as a cold wind seemed to fill the tent, andthe place of the Scotch sailor was taken up by a thin, blue, filmy mist.
"But I wanted--" began the doctor.
"Don't; pray don't try to call him back, uncle," said his nephew.
"But he's told us nothing about his being frozen in," said the doctor.
"And won't now," growled Binny Scudds. "I say, lads, do you know I likethis here. We'll have another one out to-morrow."
"Let's go outside and look," said the doctor.
We did, and there was the square block of ice neatly open, leaving theshape of the Scotch sailor perfect, even to the place where his long,thin nose had been.
"Well, turn in, lads," said the doctor; "we'll hunt out anotherto-morrow."
"So we will," said the lads. "Who's afeard?"
"Nobody!" growled Bostock. "I say, doctor, what's the differencebetween these and ghosts?"
"These, my men," began the doctor, "are scientific specimens, while yourghost is but a foolish hallucination of the--Bless me, how rude!--thefellow's asleep."
And the rest were soon in the same condition. Early the next morning,though, the doctor gave the order, "Strike tents!" and we journeyed on acouple of miles along the edge of the great crater, looking curiouslydown the mysterious slope, at the pale, thin mist far below.
"I should like to go down," said the doctor, looking longingly at thegreat hollow; "but it won't do; there's the getting back, and I shouldbe such a loss to the scientific world. Hallo! here's another."
He pointed to the clearly-seen figure of a man underneath the ice, andthe men, having now become familiar to such sights, set to laughingly,and were saved much trouble, for the ice cracked away from the figure,and after a few strokes they were able to lift the body out, and lay itin the sun, where, before many minutes had passed, it made the motion oftaking snuff, and then ejaculated--
"Declare to goodness!"
"Take a nip, mate," said Abram Bostock, handing a tot of rum; but thefigure waved it away.
"Who are you?" said the doctor. "How did you get here? Don't sayyou've already discovered the North Pole."
"Pole? North Pole?" said the figure, sleepily. "I know nothing aboutthe North Pole. No, indeed!"
"Well, who are you?" said the doctor. "Come, give us a scientificaccount;" and the stranger began.