Steve Young, who was walking first, suddenly stooped down and took up a
handful of sand, which was so hot, fine, and dry that it began to
trickle between his fingers like that in the kitchen egg-boiler at home,
as he trotted softly to the edge of the wharf and looked over, to find
exactly what he expected: the boat made fast to one of the cross
timbers, with a big swarthy man in a blue jersey asleep in the stern,
and a rough-looking, shock-headed boy also asleep in the bows, the hot
sunshine having a soporific effect on both.
As Steve reached the edge he looked sharply back and saw that the
Norwegian captain had returned, and Captain Marsham and the doctor had
turned to see what he wanted. That was Steve's opportunity, and going
down on one knee he reached over where the shock-headed boy lay with the
side of his head resting upon the boat's gunwale ten feet below, and one
ear turned up as if listening while its owner slept.
Steve Young calculated pretty well in trying to get his hand exactly
over that ear, and then let a little sand trickle down. It fell right
into the ear, for there was not a breath of wind; but the boy slept on.
Steve let a little more go down, and this time there was a tiny stone as
well, which struck the open organ and made it twitch, just as a dog's
ear does when it is tickled. But the boy slept on, and Steve tried
again, letting more sand fall. This time the boy raised his hand and
gave his ear a vicious rub. Then the hand dropped, and he slept again.
More sand, and a stone or two about half the size of peas, one of which
dropped right into the opening of the ear, and resulted in the boy
making a rapid dash with his hand past his head, as if striking at
something. He subsided once more with a grunt, and more sand fell in
company with tiny pebbles. This time the boy made three or four savage
blows in the air, but without raising his head or opening his eyes.
"Bother the flees!" he muttered, and Steve waited. Then down went the
trickling sand. "Bother the flees, I say!" cried the boy, opening his
eyes now, and making a few more angry strokes with his hand. Again he
closed his eyes, and, practice making perfect, Steve dropped a tiny
pebble right into the boy's ear, and drew back out of sight; for this
time the lad sprang up and looked sharply round. Then, seeing nothing
on the wharf overhead, he turned to the man in the stern, and said
sharply:
"That you, Hahmeesh?"
"Eh?" came in a drowsy tone.
"That you flecking stanes in my lug?"
"Na. Flees."
"No. Stanes and sahnd."
"Flees, I tell you. Be quiet."
The boy grunted, looked round, and settled down again to sleep, for he
was still drowsy.
Steve listened till all was still, glanced over his right shoulder, saw
that Captain Marsham was still talking to the Norwegian, and then
quietly peered over the edge of the granite wharf again, to find the boy
apparently fast asleep. Then down went a tiny pebble with splendid aim.
"Bother the flees!" roared the boy, springing up and sending his arms
about like a windmill. But this time Steve stood fast, laughing; while
the boy stopped short, looking up fiercely, and then grinned.
"I see you all the time hiding ahint the stanes!" he cried.
"Come, jump up; here's the captain."
The effect of those words was magical, for the man, a big,
good-humoured-looking Scot, also sprang up and stepped to his place on
the thwart forward, and cried to the boy:
"Naw, Watty, handy there with that hitcher!"
The boy caught up the boat-hook, drew the boat close to where the
painter was fastened, and then hauled her along, after casting off, to
where a rough wooden ladder was clamped to the side of the wharf.
Both moved smartly, for, short as the time had been that they had served
on board the _Hvalross_, Captain Marsham had drilled the men into
something like the same habits as those of his old crew when he
commanded a sloop in the Royal Navy, before he retired from the service
and settled down at Dartmouth. Since then he had amused himself with
his yacht, till, hearing of the non-return of his old friend Captain
Young, he determined to fit out the _Hvalross_ and make an expedition to
the north, taking with him his ward, Stephen Young, who had long been
importuning him to arrange for his going to sea.
The boat was waiting as Captain Marsham came to the edge of the little
granite wharf, and they had just stepped in when a strange sound came
floating through the silence of the soft, dreamy summer air, followed
directly by a long-drawn, plaintive howl that was almost terrible in its
despairing tone.
"What ever is that?" cried the doctor, starting up from his seat and
shading his eyes to gaze at the anchored vessel.
"It's Skene-dhu!" cried Steve. "What's he howling at? Because we're
ashore?"
"Pipes," said the man, who was now pulling steadily at one oar, while
the boy tugged at the other.
"Pipes?" cried the captain. "What pipes? They surely don't play the
bagpipes in Norway?"
"No, sir. It's Andra McByle brought his fra Oban."
"There, pull, my lads!" said the captain, frowning. "We shall have
plenty to depress us going north without winds of this description, eh,
Steve?"
"Yes, it's horrid," said that young gentleman; and the boy who was
rowing looked up at him sharply with a frown on his heavy brows.
And all the while the wild, weird strain grew louder, and the howling
more piteous, till the boat reached the vessel's side, when the drone
and squeal of the pipes ceased on the instant, and the dog's howl was
changed to a loud, joyous bark, as his handsome head appeared at the
gangway, the eyes flashing in the sunlight, ears cocked, and the thick
mass of hair about the neck ruffled up.
"Back, Skeny! Stop there, boy!" shouted Steve; and his words checked
the dog just as he was about to leap down.
At that moment a frank-looking, middle-aged man came to the side, and
looked down at them. "Any good, sir?" he said; "or are we too late for
them?"
"All right, Lowe," said the captain. "Four of the best men in port
promised."
"Old Hendal promise them, sir?"
"Yes."
"Then it is all right," said the new comer on the scene, to wit, Mr
James Lowe, the chief officer, an experienced sailor in the Northern
Seas, who had applied to Captain Marsham for a post on the vessel while
it was fitting out at Birkenhead, joined it at Oban, and proved himself
a thoroughly good navigator in bringing them round by the many islands
and fast currents of the west coast of Scotland, and then across to
Norway and up through the fiords to Nordoe.
A couple of hours later, as the occupants of the _Hvalross_ lounged
about enjoying the delicious sunshine of the short northern summer, and
those fresh to the coast gazed admiringly at the towering cliffs,
snow-capped mountains, and thundering waterfalls which plunged headlong
into the pure waters of the fiord, which reflected all like a mirror, a
heavy boat pushed off from the wharf, and Captain Hendal climbed on
deck. He was followed by four sturdy-looking descendants of the
Vikings, clear-eyed, fair-haired, massive-headed men, who looked ready
and willing to go through any danger, and who one and all declared
themselves eager to start, on one condition--that they should not be
expected to stoke the engine fire. This was conceded instantly. A few
questions were then asked by Captain Hendal as to the stores and
_materiel_ on board the vessel; and it being found that everything
likely to be wanted had been thought of and provided, and that every
possible place beside the bunkers was crammed with coal, the Norwegian
captain took his leave with the new recruits.
That evening the men were back on board with their kits; quite a crowd
of people were about the wharf, consequent upon the new interest for
them which the vessel possessed, and an hour later, steam being up, the
anchor was raised, and the sturdy-looking grey vessel glided away
through the calm waters of the fiord amidst a loud burst of cheers.
Northward ho! for the region of the midnight sun.