Steve Young | Page 3

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