Steve Young | Page 3

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