Days and days were spent exploring the coast southward, the party
landing wherever there was an opportunity offered by a likely spot; but
the most southern point of the mountain land was reached without a sign,
and several walrus boats were spoken by way of obtaining news, but
without result. Then, as the ice was densely packed, preventing any
attempt being made to search the eastern shore, a course was laid for
the great neighbouring island, the _Hvalross_ sailing steadily
north-east a short distance from the pack.
They had had a good evening's shooting the night before, and to the
great delight of Andrew, Hamish, and the cook quite a load of fine ducks
had been brought on board by the boat; but as Steve was going forward to
take a favourite position of his by the bowsprit, he found that another
member of the crew was not so highly pleased, for Watty was seated
outside the galley door with a goose in his lap and a bucket by his
side, busily plucking out the feathers and down, which, partly from the
angry energy with which he was working, partly from the breeze, were
flying in all directions, and especially all over his blue jersey and
into his shock hair, which had been well anointed with the bear's grease
he had carefully saved up from the day when the fat was boiled.
When Steve approached Watty seemed to be singing as he plucked, for
there was a mumbling, burring noise, and Steve turned to Andrew, who
happened to be close at hand seated upon the deck, fastening a line to
the edge of a sail.
"Why, Andra," he said, "do you hear that?"
"Oh ay, she hears it," replied the sailor.
"Do you know what it puts me in mind of?"
"Na, she dinna ken, Meester Stevey. A coo waiting for the lassie with
the milk-pail, maype."
"No," said Steve; "it's just like the drone of your pipes heard in the
cuddy with the hatch on."
"Fwhat? Na, na, she'll not pe a pit like tat. Ta pipes is music--coot
music, Meester Stevey; for there's na music like ta pagpipes--ta gran'
Hielan' pagpipes. But she kens she's chust cracking a choke with me."
"No, I'm not. Listen; it does sound just like it."
"Na, na, laddie," said Andrew after a pause to listen; "she's mair like
ta collie tog when she sees a cat, or maype it's mair like ta
bummel-bees among ta heather upo' ta hills in bonnie Scotland."
"Well, it sounds very comic whatever it's like. Look here's Skeny
coming up to see what's the matter; look how he's cocking his ears."
"Oh ay, she thinks it's a coo wants driving hame."
"No, he knows it's Watty. Look at him."
"Ay, she can see ta tog. An' it's a fine tog, eh, Skene? Come alang,
and I'll gie ye a pinch o' sneeshin'."
"No, no, don't tease the dog!" cried Steve, as Andrew took out an old
snuff-mull, opened it, and held it out to the dog.
"Nay, she'll na tease the tyke. Skene hasna larnt to tak' ta sneeshing.
But it's ferra coot for ta nose, Skeny."
And all the while Watty's peculiar burring sound kept on and increased,
the dog looking hard at him with his ears up, and finally giving a
short, sharp bark. "Do you hear that, Watty?" said Steve.
"Ay; she heart ta tyke."
"Skene wants the second verse of the song."
"Then he'll ha'e to wait," said the boy; and he went on again with the
monotonous burring sound which had first attracted Steve's attention.
"What's the matter with him, Andra?"
"She's making up a lang story spout ta cook. She's been retty to fecht,
and ta cook said she'd ding her het again' ta galley if she tidn't pick
ta goose."
"Ay, but she'll mak' my ploot poil pefore she's tone," cried Watty
fiercely, and scattering a handful of feathers so that some of them and
the down flew on to Steve.
"Make your ploot poil?" cried Steve, laughing.
"Ay; and it poils now!" cried Watty, scattering some more feathers
purposely, so that they should adhere to his trousers.
"There, I told you he was singing, Andra. His ploot poils, and he was
singing like a kettle."
"My mither sent me to sea to learn to pe a sailor, and ta skipper's made
me ta cook's poy!" cried Watty vehemently.
"Then you shouldn't have been such a coward, Watty. There, don't be in
a temper, and I'll speak to the captain to let you come back to the
other duties."
"Hey, put she's a puir feckless potie, and dinna ken the when she's well
off. She wishes ta captain wad pit her in ta galley, to get ta fairst
wee tasties of all ta gravies and good things ta cook potie mak's."
"But he's tired of it now, Andra. I say, Watty, look here; you're
smothering me with that fluff!"
"Then she should get ower to ta ither side of ta fessel."
"I'll knock you to the other side of the vessel if you're saucy!" cried
Steve hotly. "See if I speak to the captain for you now!"
"She dinna want ye to speak. She can speak her ainsel' when she wants,
and she ton't want; for she'll stop in ta galley the noo till we get
pack to Glasgie and goo pefore ta magistrates aboot it. There!"
This last word was accompanied by a handful of down thrown in the air so
that it might be wafted right over Steve.
This was too much for the boy's equanimity, and, hot with passion, he
snatched a handful of the down from the pail and rubbed it in Watty's
shock head, to Andrew's great delight.
"Weel tone, laddie!" he cried; "tat's ponnie. Gie her anither handfu'
of the saft doon."
Now, for some time past Watty, for reasons best known to himself, had
been nursing up feelings of the nature that would, in other conditions,
have developed into a regular Highland feud. He was jealous of Steve in
every way. It annoyed him that a boy younger than he should be dressed
better, work less, and live in the cabin, while he had to share the
meals of the men when the cook did not make him eat in the galley. In
addition, after long brooding over what he called his "wrangs," and in
his dislike to the lad who had shown himself to be more plucky, and
brought him, as he called it, to shame, he had nursed up the idea that
Steve was only a coward at heart, that all his acts were put on for
show, and that if he could only find a chance he would risk getting into
trouble if it should reach the captain's ears, and give the object of
his dislike a good thrashing.
And now the opportunity had come, and there was plenty of excuse. Steve
had dared to rub all that down into his sacred, well-greased, red locks;
and springing up and looking as if his "ploot really tit poil," he swung
round the goose he was plucking, and, using it as if it were an elastic
war-club, he brought it with excellent aim bang against Steve's head.
More blood began to boil now, for, with a cry of rage at what,
forgetting his own provocation, he looked upon as a daring insult, Steve
ran two or three steps--ran away, Watty thought; and exulting in his
imaginary triumph, he followed to strike his adversary again with his
absurd weapon; but to his utter astonishment, before the blow could
fall, Steve, who seemed to be stooping to avoid the attack, sprang up,
and, raising both hands, struck downward.
The result was curious. As Steve struck downwards Watty, in delivering
his blow, leaned forwards, placing his head just in the proper position
to receive the weapon and its contents with which the English lad had
armed himself. That weapon was the bucket full of feathers, and Steve's
anger went off like a flash, for he had completely extinguished Watty,
who staggered back, dropping the bird, blinded, half suffocated by the
down, and so confused for a few moments that even when he had thrust off
the bucket from his head he stood coughing and sneezing, staggering
about in his blind endeavours to escape.
"Weel done, laddie; tat's prave. Gie it ta saucy callant again. She'll
sweep up ta feathers when she's tone," cried Andrew in ecstasy.
But now Watty's blood boiled right over, and as soon as his eyes were
clear he rushed at Steve with an angry yell, fists doubled, teeth set;
and, regardless of the goose hurled in his face, he continued his charge
right home and up to his adversary's guard.
The next minute they were fighting hard, blow succeeding blow in the
most unscientific way; but the end was not to be then, for Andrew cried
in a hoarse whisper:
"Rin, laddie, rin! Here's ta skipper."