Eean laughed at this idea.
"And," continued Fred, "he would hardly believe me when I showed him my Latin and Greek exercises, and my books on algebra and history. And he bit his lip and grew red, and the tears came rushing into his eyes, daddy. And, O Daddy Pop, though he writes in English, he can't spell."
Fred was almost breaking down here in boyish grief for his friend.
Now was Eean's time. He took Mrs. Fielding's letter from his pocket and placed it in the boy's hand.
"It is very good of her," was all the poet said as he did so.
Eean watched him as he read. Sometimes Fred's colour heightened, and sometimes his pupils dilated, as if he saw not the letter before him.
"What, daddy, leave you and Mammy Mop and Toddie and Tippetty—and my books? Oh, Daddy Pop!"
"And what have you done about it, Pop?" he added.
"Mop and I talked hours about it; then we prayed to the Good God, Fred."
"What did the Good God say, Daddy Pop?"
"He bade me leave it all to you, dear lad."
"Ha! ha!" laughed the boy. "I'm so glad."
Then a funny notion came into his mind, which he proceeded at once to put into execution.
"Daddy," he said, "you left it to me. I'll leave it to the Corsican Brothers."
As he spoke he deftly tied a bit of meat to the string, and lowered it into the sea with a plash; about a minute after up over the ledge straddled the Corsican Brothers—Eean's pet crabs. They knew Fred, and at once advanced. Fred gave them a morsel or two of food to whet their appetite, and not to deceive them; then the boy assumed a semi-theatrical attitude, and addressed them.
"We have a very knotty point to solve, my dear twins," he said; "and Pop says I may leave it to you. Read that letter."
Both crabs seized it at once. They thought it the biggest piece of white meat ever they had turned their stalky eyes upon. But finding it flavourless and unprofitable they lost their tempers, and tore it into shreds. So indignant did they appear, they even clawed up the pieces and tore them over again.
Then Fred brushed away the paper and gave the Corsican Brothers a bigger feed than ever they had enjoyed in their lives before.
So that was an end to Mrs. Fielding's kind, but somewhat thoughtless proposal.
* * * * * *
When Frank called in his pony-trap he found Fred in his shirt sleeves, with a plane in his hand, and hard at work. He was making a table for the igloo, for carpentering was one of his chief hobbies. On the table near him lay a Greek grammar. He was conjugating the irregular verbs, while he sent the curling shavings flying all over Toddie and Tippetty, who were having fine fun on the floor.
That meeting was a very joyful one. There was much to say and much to be told on both sides.
Instead of going to the woods to-day the children got the cobble, and went off round the point fishing.
Frank's most interesting bit of news was embodied in the following words:
"I've been reading Robinson Crusoe," he said, "and I'd like to be a sailor. And what do you think?"
"I couldn't guess," said Fred. "Toddie, put the helm down a bit, the wind is shifting."
They had a sail on the cobble, and Toddie was bravely steering.
"Well, my mother has bought me a nice boat, and we are to keep it here in a boat-house. The boat is higher in the sides than this."
"Higher free-board," said Fred.
"And not quite so wide."
"Bloader in the beam oo means to say," said Toddie with a slight curl on her lip.
"How do you know all that, Toddie?" said Frank.
"Hush!" cried Toddie. "Tan't oo see I'se steeling [steering]. Oo must not talk to the man at the wheel."
Fred's eyes began to beam, as they always did when he caught up some new idea.
"O Frank," he cried, "I know what we can do. But what size is she?"
"Let me see. She must be yards and yards long."
Toddie began to laugh, and so did Fred. Poor Frank was no sailor.
"Never mind, Frank. I daresay she is big enough to deck over and step a mast in, and make a yacht of. Bunko and I can do it. You have no idea how clever Bunko is. And I have tools and wood and all."
In less than a week the boat came round, and was stabled, as Frank called it, in a boat-house on the beach. The boys could do what they liked with the boat, was Mrs. Fielding's request; but they must always have a man with a lifebuoy close beside them in another boat at sea.
Bunko took the village cows to the hill; but all day long the faithful collie Keelie watched them. The dog made a rapid run homeward every day, ate his dinner, which was always ready, then back to the hills he would scud again. So until eventide, when he went to take home his charge, Bunko's time was very much his own.
The decking and fitting out of the yacht, therefore, proceeded merrily enough. A fresh keel was put on her, and a good one too. Eean himself had seen to this. The mainsail was only a storm one, there was no topsail, and just a single jib. The rudder was very safely shipped, and so, though the boys did most of the work, Eean was the real ship-builder, and safety was consulted in every detail.
When all was complete, and the craft painted and furnished, a more complete little boys' yacht it would have been difficult to conceive.
The fishermen all said she was a perfect picture, and lay like a duck on the water, with a good many other complimentary allusions, all of which were Greek to Frank, but not to Toddie and Fred.
No expense was spared in the upholstering of the little cabin, and they even had a small galley, with a tiny spirit range, enough to make tea and boil eggs.
It was indeed a proud day for the boys, and Toddie and Tippetty, when they went for their first sail.
Their consort was a big cobble with a fisherman to row, and a silly sort of a sailor-fellow with a lifebuoy.
The villagers gathered down by the beach and natural harbour, to give them a cheer when they started away on their trial trip, with their saucy little red flag floating at the peak.
Her name was the Water Baby, and with great pomp and ceremony she had been duly christened by Toddie, a tiny bottle of eau de Cologne, brought by Frank, having been duly broken on her bows before she left the slip.
One day Mrs. Fielding herself went for a sail, and found it so perfectly safe that at Frank's earnest request she allowed them in future to dispense with the consort cobble, and the sailor-fellow also.
But they had to carry a lifebuoy nevertheless, and this was only right.
Boy though he was, Fred knew something about the signs of the weather, and always got into harbour in time to avoid a storm, or anything like one.
* * * * * *
So spring merged into summer; the days grew warmer and longer, and the sea more calm and bright. Then Fred's summer holidays came round; and happier children than those three, Frank, Fred, and Toddie, were surely not to be found in all broad Scotland.
Frank Fielding's life was not quite like his friend Fred's in one particular; for Frank could always have a holiday when he wanted one. His father was an easy-going, non-ambitious man; he possessed all the comforts of this world, and very much enjoyed them. If you had asked him about his son's prospects in life, he would have told you that he was pleased enough to let the boy enjoy himself; that very likely there was a career of some kind before him when he developed; but that meanwhile he left all his educational affairs to his—the boy's—mother.
Poor Frank! The mother might have been doing her best, but to keep constantly sending a lad from school to school was not advancing his interests.
Fred had only the regular holiday given at Scottish schools, the summer one being the chief, and indeed the only one worthy of the name, because it lasted for six weeks.
Well, anyhow, Frank had found a companion after his own heart, and Fred had found a real friend. It was almost strange, a psychologist would have thought, how very much those two lads had come to love each other in so short a time. It was in a good many ways a case of extremes meeting, but they had a deal in common nevertheless.
Both loved Nature most ardently, although Fred knew ten times more about the habits of the wanderers in wood and field than did Frank. Every wild flower he met was an old acquaintance of Fred's, and so was every bird that sang or did not sing.
Fred was a great bird-nester. But, mark this, he never took a single egg, far, far less a helpless fledgling. But he knew where they all built their nests or laid their eggs without ever bothering about building a nest, in forest, in mountain, on moorland, or by stream. There was no pine tree or larch high enough to prevent Fred from getting to the top thereof, and in Scotland these trees are at home, and grow their very tallest. He and Toddie had other friends in the wilds as well as birds, so numerous indeed that I begrudge space in which to name them. But there were bees of all kinds, and beetles of every hue and shape; there were frogs and toads, charming lizards and lovely great snakes. Not adders. Even in the heather Toddie was as often barefooted as not, because she preferred "feelin' around with her foots as Tippetty did." So she said, and Eean would not thwart her.
Well, during the holidays they had many a long day in the woods and wilds; other days were spent at sea in the yacht, where they played at being pirates, and ran down and pretended to capture fishing-boats, and once they even overhauled a Royal Navy cutter that was dodging off the point. Fred lowered sail and boarded her, and when asked what he wanted, he boldly pointed to a black flag with skull and cross bones that Frank had hoisted; told the bos'n he was "The Pirate of the Western Wilds," and he must submit to give up his craft and walk the plank. There was no little laughing at this; but finally the Water Baby was taken in tow, and the children spent a downright madcap afternoon with the sailors on board the cutter.
When it was getting near sunset farewells were said, and over the side went the pirates bold, the men giving them three cheers as their fairy-like yacht bore away for Methlin Bay.
Once it was caught in a puff of wind, and had to run for harbour; but the way Frank and Fred took in sail was a pretty sight indeed, while Toddie sat at the tiller with Tippie at her side.
Oh, I can assure you this playing pirate was fine fun! But I think, on the whole, Frank had more sense of the humorous than had Fred. He took a less serious view of life in general, and was always up to some lark or another. Once, for instance, he met Bunko in a neighbouring village with a creel of lovely lobsters, and, right or wrong, Frank must have that creel, and did have it, and, with Fred and Toddie following up in the rear, he marched boldly through the little country town, crying, "Lobsters, all alive O!" They were all dead and boiled, but that didn't matter. Frank—a laird's son—selling lobsters! Every woman and child ran out to see him, and in half an hour he had sold the lot.
How proud he was of his success! and how Bunko did laugh to be sure!
Now Frank did not wear the ordinary Highland garb such as gentlemen wear while shooting or fishing. It pleased his mother to put him into a real tartan kilt, with black jacket of velvet, skean dhu and sporran, so you may fancy what sort of a figure he cut with a creel on his back. But it wasn't all over yet; for, another day he actually bought a creel for himself, and having made some private arrangement with Bunko, the two set off together to see who would sell out the sooner.
Fred and Toddie were there as usual; but, lo and behold! just in the midst of the fun, who should drive up the street but his father and mother in the landau.
Not a bit taken aback, Frank walked right up to the carriage.
"Buy any beautiful lobsters to-day, madam?" he said, with true fisher "twang."
The lobsters were red, but Mrs. Fielding's face grew redder.
"Oh, Frank! Frank!" she cried, "how could you——"
"Quite fresh, madam, I assure you. Only boiled this morning. Feel the weight of this one, my lady."
His father could hardly speak for laughing, and the coachman's fat sides shook till he nearly fell off the dickey.
Mr. Fielding himself bought that lobster, and the carriage drove on.
Frank looked after it with a very comical expression on his face.
Then he laughed as he turned to Fred.
"I shall have that lobster to-night for supper," ha said, "and such a wigging with it from mother, you know. Father is fond of fun. Come on, Bunko. 'A man's a man for a' that.' Lobsters, all alive O!"
* * * * * *
"I fink," said Toddie one morning as she stood looking at the sea with her thumb in her mouth, "I fink, Fled, it will blow a ten-knot bleeze to-day."
"Yes," said Fred, with a glance at the sky as if he had been a hundred-years-old fisherman, "it may blow a ten-knot breeze, but bless you, Tod, we haven't got the press of canvas to carry us anything like ten knots."
"No, oo's twite light [right], Fled, we tan't do it. We tould tally more tanvas too."
"Now, Tod, don't put on airs. Skip. Frank'll be here in a minute."
Toddie and Tip did skip, and after running stark staring mad on the sands for a quarter of an hour they went to say "Dood-bye to the tsilden dolly fishes" in the aquarium.
The blennies were waiting to be stroked, and all waiting to be fed.
"Dood-bye, dolly-fishes;" cried Toddie, waving her hand as she stood in the cave mouth. "Be dood tsilden till oo mammy tomes back, and oo'll all have something nice."
Frank was careering over the sands on the Shetland pony looking for Toddie, and he gave her just one wild gallop before they embarked.
"Don't go far out to-day, bairns," cried Eean. "I'm not sure it isn't going to blow, bright and all as it is. And the breeze is off the land too."
After they had made a good offing, Fred said, "Let us stand right away to the west for a few miles, then tack back. That'll make a nice long sail of it."
The breeze was very light, and they were about five miles from the coast in an hour, a long way decidedly for children to be out on an uncertain day, albeit two of them were children of the sea.
Fred now had the mainsail lowered, and they just kept moving while Frank made coffee, and undid a package containing a splendid veal-pie.
What a delightful feast that was! And the sea and sky and shore looked somehow even more lovely after their hearty meal than they had done before. Even Tip must have thought so too; for he stood with his two fat feet on the gunwale, and barked in a daft kind of way at the sea-gulls.
What glorious tints of blue and opal and purple and green overspread seascape and landscape!
They were looking at all this in a dreamy happy way, when Fred suddenly pointed towards the mountains. "Look! look!" he cried, "at those great white clouds rising like giant's heads, looking over the hills."
"Dust like diants," said Toddie.
"Let her come round, Todd. Thank you."
The mainsail was hoisted, and she came round like a swan.
Tippetty was sent below, and Toddie too, and Fred took the tiller himself.
In less than half-an-hour the storm was over them. Fred saw it coming, and knew he couldn't face it, and so got round to scud all in good time.
The wind had gone round points and points, and the wee yacht fairly flew before it, lying over till the gunwale nearly touched the water—aye, and did at times.
"Don't be afraid, Todd," shouted Fred, laughing. "It will soon be over. Cheer up, Frank!"
Honest Fred! he knew the danger they were in, but kept the secret to himself.
Well, the Water Baby proved a grand little sailer. Fred really felt proud of her as she rose so nimbly to each green sea, and dashed the spray from her bows.
He would have been happy but for thinking of the anxiety of those at home. However, he managed to keep Toddie in the dry; and Frank and he got their oilskins and sou'-westers, and perfect little tars they looked now.
In about an hour they were far away at sea and no land in sight; but the wind had settled down to a steady blow, the seas raced up behind them, the sails were as stiff as pasteboard, and all danger seemed past.
"Aren't we going from home rather?" said Frank. Fred laughed, though he felt it was rude.
"We can't beat," said Fred, "we must run; but we've no cloth to speak of."
"Oh!" said Frank, "it is well to know that."
"I mean, you know, it is impossible to get back till this bit of a summer puff blows over. All right down there, Toddie?"
No answer. Toddie and Tip were fast asleep on the cushions.
Frank began to nod next, and finally collapsed, half in half out, of the little cabin. Fred pulled a tarpaulin over him, and then felt very lonely indeed.
It must be remembered Fred was only a youngster, though strong for his age. One thing anyhow I am quite sure of, he was not afraid; a better sailor he might have been, but fear—no.
Westward and westward with a bit of south in it went the Water Baby all day long.
Just as it was getting near to gloaming a haze spread over the ocean, obscuring everything except the green seas close aboard. Fred did not like this new turn of events. He liked it less when suddenly dark rocks loomed like gigantic black castles over him—over him—on both sides—around him. Swish! Crack! Dash! The yacht had run on shore, and the mast went by the board.
The seas hissed around the wreck—if wreck she was—like snakes, but a big kindly wave at last came sweeping on, and lifted the Water Baby high and dry on the sands.
Fred knew it was high-water just then, so there was no more danger to be apprehended.
Somehow or other the Water Baby lay on an even keel, with the wreck of the mast and the tattered sail astern of her. Frank was certainly frightened. It was a terrible awaking for anyone; but it might have been worse.
"I fell asleep sayin' my players," said Toddie, emerging from the cabin. "And poor Tippetty are both so hungly."
"Do you know where you are, Toddie?" said Fred, taking the child on his knee. There was little else to be done, he thought, but nurse Toddie, and he was so very, very tired.
"Oh yes, of course I do! We is all shipwlecked maliners now."
"Well, Toddie, don't sleep again. Let us get on shore for a run. Perhaps there is a house somewhere near."
A reddish mist appeared seawards, between the giant rocks they had been so fortunate as to escape, and Fred knew the sun had set.
The wind appeared going down with it too, so his spirits rose.
It was only a small island after all. They searched about and called and shouted, but no sound or sight of human life could be discovered; so they returned together towards the little cove, and prepared to make the best of it.
"Get on board, Frank, and light the lamp, and boil some water for tea. Toddie and I will go and gather dulse."
"All right, Captain Fred," said Frank, who really appeared now to be enamoured of their romantic situation.
When Toddie and Tippie and Fred got back from the beach it was nearly dark; but the little cabin seemed quite cosy, and after some delicious tea, and the rest of the pie, they all felt as happy as happy could be.
They had books in the cabin, and so Fred volunteered to read a story, after talking for some hours. The story was one of their favourites—Sinbad the Sailor.
It must have been long past nine when Toddie began to nod; so Fred put her to sleep with Tip on the little sofa, and covered her over with a plaid.
By this time the wind had quite gone down; so after a turn on deck, as Fred phrased it, the boys went below and turned in all standing. More of Fred's phraseology, meaning that they lay down on the floor with their clothes on. And the sun had risen, and was shining yellow into the cabin before they ever moved again.
What a gladsome, joyous morning! And how brimful of health and happiness were those two lads, Fred and Frank! Both seemed to wake at once; then they looked in each other's faces, blinked a little in that yellow ray of sunshine, then burst out laughing.
In about five and a half seconds, as nearly as I can judge, they were both on deck rubbing their eyes and looking about them.
"Isn't it famous?" cried Frank.
"Oh, it's grand!"
"But I say, you know, what about my mamma and your Mammy Mop?"
"Oh, that'll be alright! Daddy and mammy are so sensible, both of them."
"So are mine, but——"
"But what?"
"Well, they know I'm not. They haven't forgotten those lobsters yet."
"Well, I'm going to forget everything as much as I can. I have my wee sister to comfort and see after. Daddy will pray for us, and then he'll be content and happy."
"I say, are you hungry?"
"Yes; so now I'm Captain Fred, and you're my lieutenant."
"Oh, no, captain, you're Crusoe, and I'm your man Friday."
"Well, Friday, bustle about and get ready breakfast; cook down there by that rock, and I'll see to the Fairy Queen—Toddie, you know."
Now there was going to be no starvation for some days to come, if indeed they were not rescued before then. Fred had always an eye to eventualities, and he had had the little yacht stored with biscuits and preserved meats and milk in tins. Frank had insisted on paying for all his stores, as he was owner, though Fred was sailing master.
Down below went Fred. Toddie was still sound asleep, and as for Tip, who lay in her arms, he would have slept for two days if his little mistress but lay still. Fred did not wake her just yet.
It had just occurred to him that there was scarcely a drop of water in the ship. This was terrible, for perhaps there was none in the island.
But then they had seen sheep. Oh, there must be water!
So off the boys went with a can to explore. There were no savages on the island, and so Toddie would be safe. They found a patch of scraggy bushes near a rock. A great striped snake wriggled away, and then Fred felt sure there was water near by.
Yes, trickling out of a rock, a lovely wee crystal rill. How sweet and cool it was! Both drank and felt refreshed. They filled the can and hurried back to the ship.
Fred got a nice basin of the cool water, a towel and soap, and descended once more to the cabin.
To his dismay, Toddie was gone! and Tip was gone! For a moment he was bewildered; then he called Frank, and off they ran all round and up and down the island, which was certainly not a large one. They shouted again and again, but there was no answer. At long last though, they saw Tippetty at some distance, standing with his paws on the very edge of a dizzy cliff, looking over.
Fred's eyes felt starting from the sockets with fear. He did not even notice that poor Frank had fainted and fallen on the green turf.
On and on towards Tip went Fred—slowly, silently, his hands stretched in front of him—walking as one dreams of walking in a terrible nightmare.
At last—oh, joy!—Tip started away from the cliff with a joyful bark, and next moment, catching by a scraggy bush, Toddie pulled herself up, and quite laden with a curious kind of mauve stonecrop, came rushing to meet her foster-brother.
Fred clasped her in his arms, kissed her face, and burst into tears.
Toddie could not quite understand the terrible danger she had been in, nor the extent of the fright she had given them, till they found Frank. He was just reviving.
"So foolish to faint," he said sleepily.
"Oo is vely, vely white," Toddie said. "O Flank, I'se been a naughty dirl!"
"You are safe, Toddie. Come."
Toddie went and sat by him a short time, and made him laugh at last; then the boys made a "Queen's chair" by interlacing their hands. Toddie sat thereon, and thus, laughing and running, they returned to the cove, Tip barking round them all the time.
Toddie promised faithfully not to go near the terrible cliff again, so happiness was completely restored.
How they did enjoy that breakfast to be sure! But they could not sit there all day, so up they got at last. Toddie took off her stockings and shoes, and rolled up her sleeves, and commenced at once to wash up and clear away, while Crusoe and his man Friday went to examine the yacht. She was deeply imbedded in the soft sand, but her bottom was found to be sound, though doubtless she would leak when floated again. The sails were intact, but the mast had gone by the board.
So they unloosed the former and spread them out to dry, and hauled the mast out of reach of the water. Then down they sat to consider their position, while Toddie, having tidied herself and done up the cabin, went to paddle on the beach with Tip. Fred was full of resources.
Frank was more full of fun than anything else.
"Have you anything to propose, Friday?" said Fred seriously.
"Yes," said Frank, "I propose that I should listen and nod my head to all you say. I'm only a nigger you know, a black irreclaimable savage."
"Well, you know this island is only a solitary patch in the middle of the sea, and there are hardly any others visible; but I think, you know, we could float the Water Baby and rig the broken mast as a jury."
"You're the best judge," said Frank, "so it will be judge and jury."
"Be quiet, Friday; how dare you, sir!"
"All right, sah, I'se goin' to be quiet and circumspecful like."
"We haven't a spade, but we have an axe," said Fred; "and I saw some old spars up there, so we could soon make a spade, no, two spades. Then we could dig away the sand all round her at low-water, and at high-water she would float; then we could shove off, and if the wind would favour us, we could steer for the east, and get home all right. I really think it can be managed."
"Oh, look, look!" cried Friday. "Why it's a goat! Oh, if we could only learn him to dance, what fun it would be, massa Crusoe!"
Then up jumped Frank.
"Tip, Tip, Tip," he cried. "Toddie, Toddie, Toddie."
And the wild wee maiden with her daft wee doggie came bounding to the call.
"I'm going for an explore," said Frank.
"But our work?" said Fred.
"Oh, bother the work, that can wait!"
"Well, we can all go for a little while. Put on your stockings and shoes, Tod."
Toddie gladly did as she was told, and away the shipwrecked mariners went. There was a high bit of ground, almost a hill in fact, in the centre of the island, and they climbed this first. They found a goat and two kids up here, but they went bounding away like red deer.
"I don't think they can be taught to dance, massa Crusoe," remarked Frank.
"I fear not, Friday."
From the hill they could see all "wound the world," as Toddie phrased it. What a beautiful world it was too, a world of peaceful blue waters, a world of blue sky, fleecy cloudlets and sunshine, but apparently a world of lonesomeness! They could barely see the mainland, and they could just make out some islands lying far away to the west, with one steamboat, the smoke trailing like a dark snake far in the rear, but never a ship was there to be seen, and not even a boat.
As they were gazing westwards Toddie noticed a fountain of white spray rise up out of the blue water, and presently another. She clapped her hands with delight.
"Oh," she cried, "it is a Johnnie whale!"
And the Johnnie whale came nearer and nearer till they could see his huge bulk rising and falling in the sea.
Soon after a merry shoal of porpoises passed close to the island. They were leaping out of the water, and even cooing in their joy. But Toddie's thoughts and sympathies were with that Johnnie whale.
"Oh," she said, as if the whale could hear her, "don't tome near the shole, Johnnie. Swim home, oo silly whale, oo mammy will die if she never sees oo any more."
The children walked all round the cliff edge. They found one other bay or harbour, but with the exception of this and the cove into which the little yacht had been so providentially thrown, the shores of this island presented to the waves a dark and impenetrable barrier. They explored the little harbour. There were the ashes of a fire that had long, long been extinguished, but no mark of a single footprint in the sand to show that any boat had been recently here. So they went slowly back to their yacht. The sea-birds screaming in myriads about them, and the wild rabbits here and there on the stone-covered sides of grey hillocks standing up on their hind legs and wonderingly looking at the little strangers. Indeed, the wildness of the sheep, and the few goats, and the exceeding tameness of the coneys and gulls, were proofs that the island was seldom visited.
For the time being our little heroes were undoubtedly monarchs of all they surveyed.
Dinner, however, was the first thing to be thought about. That discussed, the boys left Toddie and Tip to clear up while they started work.
"The first thing, Friday," said Crusoe, "is to build a fire on the hillock. There is a lot of brushwood, so come on."
They gathered plenty of stuff, and heaped it up, all ready to light after nightfall, or rather in the gloaming; for the nights were now short, and unless boats were actually sent out to look for them there would be small chance of the fire attracting much attention. And smoke seen during the day by any passing ship or vessel would only be considered the work of some shepherd or tourist.
There was more wood down in the little bay that they had explored, but a fire there would not be easily seen; besides, even if seen, sailors or fishermen would put it down to kelp-making.
There was quite a wealth of wild flowers here also, many that even Fred had never seen before, so they culled great bouquets and, brought them back with them to Toddie, who at once set about decorating the yacht. This work kept the child busy, and Tip too, who took intense interest in all his little mistress did.
"Suppose, Friday," said Crusoe, "we inspect stores?"
"Suppose, massa," said Friday, "we read a book instead?"
"No, no, Friday boy. No laziness. Get up the stores at once."
So Friday obeyed, and Crusoe carefully counted all the eatables.
"We have enough to last us for over a week," was Crusoe's summing up.
"Then we can fish."
"Oh, yes, Friday, I hadn't thought of that! Get the lines out, and we may catch some for supper."
There was one thing they were rather short of, namely, spirits for the stove; but they contrived a regular gipsy-fire of wood, with stones so arranged that they could place a saucepan over the glowing embers. Toddie brought her picture-books down to the rocks, and the boys began to fish.
Fishing is a dreamy kind of employment anyhow, so it is no wonder the time flew fast away.
"Oh, isn't all this jolly!" said Friday, as he pulled in his fifth grey mullet. "Now, massa, how nice it would be to stay here a month, if we could only catch a seagull and send it home with a message."
"That would be glorious. But see, Friday, the sun is nearly down. What lovely colours!"
"Now for supper," cried Frank
The fire was soon made, and the fish were roasted as Indians cook their fish, by attaching them to a sloping wood grating close to the dying embers.
"It is a supper worth being shipwrecked twenty times for," remarked Fred.
This sentiment was agreed to by his friend, and seconded by the little queen.
"Oh!" said her majesty, "Tip and I is twite full of joy and—and——"
"Grey mullet," said Fred, laughing. "Come, Tod, we're going to make this bonfire."
That was a blaze. Surely it could be seen a hundred miles away! What fun they had too, chasing or racing round the flames and through the smoke till Toddie looked like a gipsy's bairn, and Frank was black enough for any Friday.
Then they heaped more wood up with damp stuff to keep it alight.
They washed themselves at the rill, dried their faces with their handkerchiefs, then joined hands and went singing back to the boat.
Frank read aloud from Robinson Crusoe for quite an hour, then they said their prayers and turned in.
But on this night Fred and Frank slept under the sails on the sand, so that they might hear if any boat came, and Toddie and Tip had all the cabin.
"You won't feel lonely, will you, Tod?" said Fred last thing.
"No," said Toddie, "I've dot Tippetty you know, and I s'pose the Dood God isn't vely far away."
The next morning after breakfast Crusoe and Friday set to work in earnest. They very soon fashioned rude spades, and the tide being well back they commenced digging around the yacht. They dug and dug for hours. Then the Crusoe stood up to straighten out the "kinks from his backbone," as he himself phrased it. He scratched his head and smiled.
"Well, massa," said Friday, "you look very wise."
"We're a pair of fools though, Friday. Just listen, we're not doing a bit of good, we're only sinking the yacht lower, and as fast as we dig a canal down to the sea, as fast will the waves fill it up with sand."
Friday cried, "Hurrah! I am so glad!" Then he threw away his spade. Friday was not fond of work. You see, reader, theory is one thing, practice another.
They went away now to the hill again to rebuild the fire. It was quite out, and it was evident enough no one had seen it, or taken much notice of it at all events.
"I'm not sure, you know, that the fire will be of much use," said Fred, "but it is the correct thing to do, so we must do it for Toddie's sake. You and I, Frank, wouldn't mind this life for a month."
"Yes, for dear Toddie's sake, brother Fred."
There was something in the look that Frank gave his companion, more than in the words themselves, that went straight away to the heart of the fisher-boy, and on the impulse of the moment he stretched out his hand, and right heartily was it grasped.
"For life," said Frank.
"Yes," said Fred, "friends for life, Frank."
And so the strange compact was sealed.
A compact such as this men may smile at, but there is far more in the love that often exists 'twixt boy and boy, than many old heads could imagine or would be willing to believe.
As soon as dusk fell again the fire was once more lit, and once more the children danced and played in its rosy gleams, then, somewhat tired, though certainly not weary, they went home to read and talk around the camp fire, and then sleep again sealed the eyes of our shipwrecked mariners.
Another day and another went by just the same. The island seemed quite out of the course of steamboats, and fisher-boats never came near it.
But all through the glad sunlit hours they played at Crusoes, at pirates, and smugglers, and all sorts of children's heroes, and the day did not seem half long enough to contain all the jollity and joy that had to be crammed into it.
I'm not sure that the hour around the camp fire just before turning in was not the jolliest of all, for on board the little yacht they had all sorts of pleasant story books, and while Frank or Fred read aloud, the other two permitted their fancies to run riot in the pleasant land of imagination.
But why, they often wondered, did no boat answer their signal? It was kept up now even in the sunshine. It was as Fred reverently said, a pillar of cloud by day, and a pillar of fire by night.
Yet nevertheless they seemed forgotten of all the world.
But one evening, just at sunset, and before the night fire was lit, to their joy they saw a boat coming straight down under sail towards the island. It came near enough for them to see the fishermen's caps and faces.
They ran down to the cliff top, and the boys, took off their coats, shouting loudly.
Yes, they are heard; for look! there is a commotion in the boat, the sail shivers, the boat's way is all but stopped. Next minute, to the consternation of the children, and to their astonishment as well, round goes the mainsail boom, and away on another tack flies the boat.
The truth is, this little island was supposed to be haunted, and these superstitious fishermen, who had probably come from a far-off island, believed they had seen ghosts in daylight. The forms of Toddie, Fred, and Frank, on that dizzy cliff top, scaring the myriads of wild birds with their waving garments, appeared to their frightened imaginations as giants warning them away from the place.
When the children lit their fire that evening, they did not think of dancing round it, and hardly one of them spoke as they went slowly down to the beach again. Even Tippetty was dull, and lagged behind.
"Don't lead a stoly to-night, Flank," said Toddie. "I's so tired."
Then Fred took her on his knee and nursed her, and she soon fell fast asleep. Between the two of them they carried her on board, and put her to bed with Tip.
The boys turned in as usual under the sail on the sand; but about two o'clock, or half-past, just as the dawn was creeping gray over the sea, Fred awoke, and getting up went straight away to Toddie.
Tip looked up, and gave a little low coughing bark. He was afraid to bark aloud lest he should wake his charge. But poor Toddie never opened her eyes. Fred felt her hands and arms, which were tossing uneasily about. They were hot. He put his cheek to hers. It was burning.
Then the terrible truth flashed over his mind, Toddie was ill, and in a fever.
"Oh," he moaned, "what if no help comes, and she dies all alone on this island!"
He sat by her side now till seven o'clock. She only waked once and called for water.
She sat up in bed, but her eyes had a sparkle that Fred did not like.
"Are you ill, Toddie?"
"Oh, no; I'se not ill, oo know. Only dust feepy (sleepy); but, Fled, I didn't say my players. Will the Dood God be angry?"
There was a big lump in Fred's throat, and he did not dare to speak, only snuggled her up, and she slept once more.
All that day she lay like a wee dying bird, and it was indeed a long and a lonesome one to the boys. No more Crusoe now, no more Man Friday.
When sunset came again they went to the hill and lit the fire. Tip would not come. Like Toddie, he had eaten nothing all day; the spirit seemed clean gone out of him.
Neither Frank nor Fred could go to sleep to-night, so they brought the lamp down to the cabin and sat on the floor, whispering low when they talked at all, Fred holding Toddie's hot wee hand.
It almost broke the boys' hearts to hear the poor child raving in her delirium about her dolly-fish and the Johnnie whale, and calling for Daddy Pop.
"Oh, Frank!" said Fred at last, "Toddie's going to die to-night, I feel so sure, so sure!"
Then his head dropped on his friend's shoulder, and he fairly broke down and sobbed.
"Fred," said Frank, "you're generally the bravest of the two"—Frank took no note of his grammar to-night, poor lad—"but now I must take you in hand."
"Oh, Frank! but you don't know how much I love Toddie, no one can ever know; and if she dies, and I'm sure she will, I don't want ever to do anything again."
"I tell you, Fred, she won't die. Now don't be silly, Fred." Frank patted his friend, and soothed him as if he had been a baby. He really was a baby in heart at present, for the dear boy had had no sleep for so long a time, and sorrow weighs the eyelids down.
He was quiet at last, sobbed a little now and then, opened his hands once or twice very wide, clutched his right hand, and slept.
Then his friend lowered him gently to the deck, placed a jacket under his head, and gradually drew himself high enough up to watch Toddie.
Tip looked at him with his sad brown eyes. "Somebody has hurt my poor little mistress," he seemed to say; "can't you help her?"
It looked as if nothing could ever help Toddie again. Her breath came in gasps, and her eyes were only partially closed.
Suddenly it occurred to Frank that he had in the ship that little fever mixture his mother always made him take a teaspoonful of when ill. It was there in the cupboard, and he got it at once.
Tippetty watched him.
"I'm going to make your little mistress well, Tip."
Tip wagged his tail just once, as if he were not too sure about it.
Then Frank poured a little in a glass.
"Can you drink, dear?" he whispered, gently raising her head and shoulders.
The child opened her eyes, smiled faintly, and drank.
Then he lowered her back on the pillow.
"Oo is a dood daddy whale," she muttered, and closed her eyes in sleep once more.
A whole hour must have passed away—a long and weary one for the watcher. Frank had been holding Toddie's hand all the time.
"Flank! Flank!"
It was Toddie's voice, and she sat bolt upright on the sofa.
"Oh, Toddie, lie down, dear!"
"No, Flank, I's listenin'."
With her great glistening eyes, open to their widest extent, she quite terrified the boy.
"They is toming, Flank, they is toming! I's going home, Flank. Oh, I's going home!"
Frank was petrified with fear. He had never seen death, but something told him it must be like this. "listen, Flank; listen!"
Frank did listen now. Then he could distinctly hear a shout.
"Fred, Fred!" he cried, forgetting even Toddie in his excitement. "A boat, Fred! a boat! We're saved, and Toddie will live."
"Of tourse," said Toddie, "I's doin' to live. Listen adain."
They could now hear the sound of oars in rowlocks, and both the boys rushed overboard and down to the water's-edge, just as a cobble was beached.
Bunko jumped plash into the water and quickly drew the boat up, then Eean himself descended.
"My poor boys," he cried, "how you must have suffered! And Toddie, is she well?"
Fred would have spoken, but Frank grasped his arm. "She is just a little feverish, sir," he said.
"Look! look! she is coming," he cried now, and hurried back to the yacht.
Tippetty had jumped on to the sand, and Frank's sturdy young arms were just extended in time to save poor Toddie from falling after him.
Next minute she was at home in Daddy Pop's strong arms.
Bunko was standing on the beach in the morning dawn, leaning on his pole, and looking picturesque enough in his red coat against the dark gray of the rocks.
"It's no' very sodger-like to greet (cry)," he said, hiding his eyes with his raised arms; "but—forgive me, my friends, I canna really help it."
* * * * * *
A great red ball of a sun was rising through the summer morning's haze, and throwing its crimson over the sea as Eean's boat, the Treasure-trove, stole silently away from the Crusoe isle, with both the cobble and the yacht in tow. Bunko was in the cobble with his pole, and it took him all his time to prevent the two crafts from colliding.
But a westerly wind sprang up, and by one o'clock all were safe in Methlin Bay.
The children and their little yacht had long, long been given up for lost; only somehow hope remained in Eean's breast. He had therefore cruised about for nearly a week, and at last chanced to fall in with the very boat our heroes had seen approaching the haunted island.
They told him a strange and garbled story about gigantic spirits having been seen dancing in smoke, and Eean had at once come to the conclusion that the giants might be the dear children he was in search for.
Immediately after the arrival of the Treasure-trove in the bay, poor wee Toddie was handed over to Eppie's tender care, and Bunko was dispatched for the doctor. But nevertheless I feel quite sure it was owing more to Mammy Mop's tender nursing than to this doctor's physic, that Toddie at the end of two weeks was enabled once again to join Fred and Frank in their rambles.
It is needless to say that Mrs. Fielding had been half wild about her boy. It is almost needless to add that she spoke of depriving the boys of their yacht. But Eean got her to listen to reason at last.
"It was all an accident," he argued. "The lads could not have behaved more heroically, or shown themselves better sailors, and she ought to be proud of her boy."
"Indeed, Mrs. Fielding," said Eean in conclusion, and talking almost bitterly, "Frank would be a man if you would only permit him to be so."
So, much to their joy, the boys were allowed to go yachting and fishing again, and playing at pirates too, and once more Tippetty took his old seat at the bows where he could best bark at the sea gulls, and once more Toddie bravely took the tiller.
During this long summer holiday Fred made quite a sailor of his friend Frank, that is as far as anyone could, for the lad was not entirely cut out for a seafarer.
In return for this instruction in seamanship Frank taught Fred to ride, and riding was really an accomplishment of Frank's. It takes a plucky boy too to acquire the art of horsemanship with a Shetland pony, especially when, as Frank insisted, the learner had first to practise bare-back.
"You'll never get the grip with your knees else," he told him rightly enough; but this daft wee horse was probably just as difficult to ride before you knew his tricks and his manners as any to be met with in all Scotland.
However, Fred was declared master after a time, and then the pony became far more serious and manageable.
But this delightful holiday came to an end at last, and once more Mrs. Fielding took her lad south to a fresh school she had heard such good accounts of.
"Poor Frank!" said Eean, when he heard of it.
* * * * * *
Some people would have condemned the fisherman bard's plan of training Fred. I myself do not think it was wrong. He was certainly kept strictly to school, and his lessons were superintended by Eean himself at night; but then he had unbounded exercise, and he was also taught to work. Before he was fourteen years of age he was a fairly good carpenter, and could help to make a cask, while he knew all the mysteries of fish-curing.
Then he had his hobbies, namely, his music and his aquarium, and he had his amusements as well. The wild woods were his home, and on the sea he felt as safe as in his own bed in the fisherman's cottage.
Fisher folks are a very humble and unambitious people; but I really know no other class so innocent in their mode of life and manners. If Christianity flourishes anywhere in Scotland, it is in the obscure villages of honest fisher people.
Very superstitious they are, however; but surely there is no harm in this.
Kindly they are too, and clannish, hardly caring to mix much, far less intermarry, with the peasantry that dwell around them, and when grief falls upon one house it seems to fall on all. A wedding causes happiness and merriment to the whole of a fisher community, and a death, especially by drowning, brings grief to every cot.
Although Eppie was not by any means very old, she was looked up to as the matron of the village—a veritable mother in Israel. She was supposed to know far more of medicine than the old doctor who used to put in an appearance about once a week riding on a wonderful old white pony. When I tell you what this pony did one day, you will, I think, admit he was entitled to be called "wonderful."
Frank, on his Shetland, overtook the old doctor in a wood, and touching his hat to his grey hairs, immediately commenced a conversation.
"That's been a nice pony of yours, sir, in its day."
"Humph!" said the medicine man, "I daresay you think both he and I are out of the hunt, eh?"
"Oh, no, sir! But I say, sir, this is a nice bit of road, isn't it?"
The doctor laughed.
"I do like a cheeky boy," he said; "but see if I don't accept your challenge. From the first milestone to the next, then.
"Now here's the milestone; are you all ready?"
"All ready, sir."
"Gee—ee—up, then!"
And away they went.
For the first half mile Frank was far ahead. So confident of victory was he that he took off his bonnet and waved it back at the doctor.
But before he was aware a streak of lightning seemed to be coming up behind, and Frank had to fly. Hand over hand the doctor came on; it was soon neck and neck; and after this poor Frank was nowhere in the running.
But Eppie was an herbalist; no witch, however. She did not gather her simples at midnight on the moor under the light of the moon, nor utter incantations over them. No; she used to walk out in broad daylight knitting her stocking, with Toddie and Tip coming up behind her, each carrying a basket.
As she passed through the village on her return she would call at many a little cot, and she had a welcome wherever she went. The old women would get up and dust a chair for her, and the toddling bairnies would run laughing to meet her. And honest Eppie never came away without getting a blessing, and leaving one too. She would leave something else as well for the sick; namely, a bunch of roots or fresh green leaves, with instructions how to brew a decoction therefrom.
"These reets [roots] are, may be, no vera bonnie," Eppie would say, "but they're the best things for the bluid you ever saw or heard tell o'."
Eppie was as good as an elder among some of the sick people, and she had a way with her of administering spiritual advice that never gave offence. How prettily she could tell a Bible story, or describe in, simple language the plan of salvation, those who heard her speak in her own broad East of Scotland Scotch—for she was not a native of this wild west village—may remember to this day.
Eean never visited; he was naturally shy but he conducted service in his cave every Sunday evening all the year round.
On calm summer evenings boats containing stranger tourists would sometimes stop beneath the cliffs, and greatly would these holiday-keepers marvel to hear the sweet sad strains of "Martyrdom" or "London New," coming whence they could not tell, for no one was visible on the cliff or about it, and the ports of the cave were not easy to distinguish.
The village of Methlin was a very small one from a fisherman's point of view; but though the boats were few, they were manned by hearts as brave as ever dared to face the stormy ocean. Nor were the fishermen idlers or laggards. They did not depend on the herring season for a living—they found fish all the year round if it were possible to go out; then there were always lobsters and crabs to be caught in the cage or creel. The haddocks were smoked, and cod were salted. There was a town about twenty miles from the village, and here there was a ready market for all the produce of this industrious people. Instead of loitering about the street corners on days when fishing was an impossibility, the men found plenty to do in their gardens, which were kept in great perfection, or on their little crofts of an acre or two each in extent.
If ever a stray tourist or strolling artist came to Methlin, he was at once struck by the beauty of the gardens and the quaintness of the cottages.
On the whole I am rather proud of my wee village, and do not hesitate to say it was unique, and of its kind quite idylic.
Next to Eean and Eppie, I'm not quite sure that honest Bunko did not rank as the greatest favourite after the adventure I am now going to describe.
I should state, to begin with, that Scottish fishing boats are not like those used, say, at Yarmouth and in England generally; these latter are decked over, and therefore fit to stop a week at sea; the Scotch are open all amidships, and, though very strong and high in the free-board, would quickly fill and perish in a sea-way with a strong gale blowing.
But the hardy Scot, like the Viking of old, takes his life in his hand, and boldly ventures far to sea in these boats; yet, woe is me! never a season passes that widows and children are not left to weep and mourn for dear husbands and fathers they ne'er will see again in this world beneath.
It was in the autumn time, when the corn in the fields was ripening yellow, when the leaves on the birchen trees were growing darker and darker, and when almost every bird save the robin and skite had ceased to sing, that there came a boat into Methlin Bay reporting fish to be found in immense shoals a goodly way to the nor'ard and west. On board this boat was a wealth of silvery herrings, amply proving the truth of the boat-owner's words. He had called here to give the villagers a friendly hint.
What hurry, commotion, and excitement there were now! The men, women, and even the tiniest children were busy for a time; but soon this passed away, and there fell over the village that strange hush that only the women of wigwams in the Indian districts of America west, when their braves have gone on the warpath, know, or the wives of Scottish fisher-folk, when their husbands are hurried away to sea.
Eean had gone with the rest, and with him both Fred and Toddie, for the latter would not be denied.
The weather was to all appearance most propitious for deep-sea fishing, and everyone was cheerful and merry. "Why, Toddie, you coming with us!" said Eean's best hand. "Why we'll have luck, my little lass!"
As Eean rolled his wee girl in a pea-jacket, and set her near him at the helm, he could not help crooning to himself some verses from Longfellow's "Wreck of the Hesperus."
"It was the schooner Hesperus,
hat sailed the wintry sea;
And the skipper had taken his little daughter,
To bear him company.
"Blue were her eyes as the fairy flax,
Her cheeks like the dawn of day,
And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds,
That ope in the month of May."
Away went the boats. The women and children watched them from the cliff-top till a gathering haze swallowed them up, then went somewhat sadly back to their homes. "I dinna like the looks of the weather," said a fisherman's wife that evening after sunset. "The moon has an unco' queer look about it, and there are clouds rising in the east that'll soon chase ilke starn [star] out o' the lift."
"Hush, Jemmie, hush!" said Eppie, heaping more peat and wood on the fire. "Our men have been mercifully preserved on mony a stormy nicht, and I've little fear of them noo, even should the wind blaw ower the hills in hurricanes."
About ten o'clock that night Eppie was dosing in her chair, for her day's work had been hard, when an anxious knocking was heard at the door, and she speedily got up and drew aside the bolt, admitting three neighbours.
"Oh, woman, woman!" they cried, "hear at the wind, and Johnnie Stevens' glass is doon, doon, doon! It'll be the wildest nicht at sea that ever a boat was oot in."
"Sit down by the fire," said Eppie. "I've been listenin' to the wind. It's no a cheery sound; but oh, women, do you no ken that the Lord can hold the sea in the hollow of his han'?"
But I fear Eppie was trying to impart to her neighbours a comfort she herself was very far indeed from possessing. No one thought of bed or rest that night. Nor could the wives who had gathered around Eppie's blazing hearth sit long in one place. They must keep pacing about, often going anxiously to peer out into the darkness, shuddering and shivering as they heard the wild howl of the tempest and the rattle of hail and sleet on the window panes. The kindly-hearted Eppie kept them talking as much as possible, and she herself seemed no whit affected, though in reality her heart was a heavy one indeed. But there were, in spite of all she could do, spells of silence, broken only by the wail and "howther" of the wind, and the sobs of those grief-stricken women.
It must have been well on towards morning when every eye was turned towards the door, for the "sneck was tirled"; and next moment the outer door was opened.
Who was coming?
Every heart beat quick with anxiety. Then the inner door was thrown wide, and in stalked Bunko, red coat on and pole in hand.
His bonnet was pulled down over his ears, and his face was rain-battered and red. He looked indeed an uncouth figure.
"He is a good man," said Bunko, "and bringeth good tidings."
"Oh, may the Lord love you for they words!" cried one of the women; "but speak, Bunko, speak!"
"It's like this," said the half-witted lad. "There is hope yet, ye mustna let down your hearts. I've just come back from the harbour, and ae [one] boat has just come in."
"Oh, bless you, Bunko! Who's boat is it?"
"None o' your men."
The women wrung their hands.
"It's Will Scroggie's boat. Will had a mis-shanter, and bore up afore the brunt o' the storm cam' on. But the boat is sadly tashed. And a' the rest are blown oot to sea."
"Oh, Bunko, Bunko! is that a' the comfort ye have to gie?"
"Wheesht, women. Hold your din till I tell ye."
"When I returned sair for-fochten" (sorely over-powered), "I found the public-hoose open, and in I gaed to taste a drap for my stomach's sake. And wha saw I sittin' there by the fire but Sandie Grigg just returned from the sea. He'd heard the awfu' news, and was condolin' wi' me about it, when up he sprang frae his stool. I have it, I have it," he cried.
"Hae ye ta'en leave o' your seven sinses?" said I.
"Na, na, Bunko," said Sandie, "and if you can ride you may save every boat."
"I can ride anywhaur, or do onything to save but ane o' those bonnie boats," I cried.
"Well," he said, "it's twenty miles and a bittock to the town of D—— whaur I came from the day. The gunboat Sandpiper is there. She sails at seven sharp. You may catch her. Rin, Bunko, rin, and tell the women folks, and I'll hae Jock Leggie's brown mare at Eppie's door in a hand clap."
Even as Bunko spoke there came the sound of hoofs on the stones outside.
"Quick, Eppie, quick!" cried Bunko, dashing his plaid and pole on the floor, "give me a drink o' milk. That's it. Noo tak care o' Keelie. Keelie, lie down, sir, till I come back."
Eppie thrust a bannock in his pocket. Bunko pulled his cap down still farther over his brow, and hardly waiting to hear the prayers and blessings the poor women hurled after him, though he fain would have waited, he pulled the door open and dashed out.
"You've three hours, but its deed against the storm you'll ride."
"I'll do it or die," cried Bunko.
And away towards the woods he flew, hardly visible in the hurricane mist that obscured the dawn of this awful day.
He hurried on, but aye as the gusts gathered extra force he waited for the lull, then once more struck his heels against the sides of his willing steed.
Poor honest Bunko, he was Scotch to the back bone; and as he tore along he kept up his courage with verses from the Bible, and snatches from the poems of Burns.
"Go on, good mare!" he cried. "It's life or death, my lassie! Clothe your neck wi' thunder, as Job says, and rejoice in your strength.
"'But sich a nicht he took the road in
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in.
The wind blew as 'twould blawn its last,
The rattlin' hail roared on the blast.
Near and more near the thunders roll,
The lightnings flashed from pole to pole.'"
At long last he is near the town, in sight even of the harbour. He can even see the white steam and the smoke of the Sandpiper. Her commander was one of those daring men whom no wind off a shore would keep in harbour if he once made up his mind to sail.
Nearer and nearer comes Bunko; but, alas! the mare's strength gives out, she staggers and falls. Bunko is on his feet in a moment, and flying by himself now towards the harbour steps.
The last boat has just returned.
The gunboat is already in motion.
But these boatmen knew not Bunko; and his red-coated figure, bareheaded, and with face streaming with blood, was startling enough, no doubt.
They positively refused to take him off.
"But," cried Bunko wildly, "it's to save precious life, I tell you! I'll give you one hundred pounds to take me!"
"In you jump then, lad. Shove off, men. Give way with a will. We'll hardly catch her."
But Bunko tore off his red coat and waved it wildly in the air, and next minute the good ship stopped.
The commander heard all Bunko had to say, and loudly praised his gallantry. "I'll save your friends, boy, never fear, if they are still afloat."
So back to the shore Bunko was rowed.
The poor mare was on the top of the steps, but she would need a long rest before she could take the road again. And Bunko himself felt the need of rest; so, leading his mare, he betook himself to the nearest inn.
Meanwhile Captain Heydon, of the saucy Sandpiper, lost no time in steaming away in search of the missing boats.
He came up with the distressed fleet about four in the afternoon, and barely in time to save the lives of those poor struggling fellows. Not a boat had as yet sunk, but they were filling fast; while the crews were completely exhausted, and had given way entirely to despair.
The faint cheer they gave, when they noticed the brave little war-ship bearing down to their assistance, could scarce be heard amid the howling of the storm.
Boat after boat was emptied of its crew, old Eean, Toddie, and Fred being among the first to be hauled over the side.
Weak as she was, Toddie resolutely refused to be taken on board the gunboat, till she had seen her pet Tippetty in safety.
The half-drowned men were at once seen to by the kindly sailors, and were soon in warm hammocks or sitting around the galley fire.
The boats as well as their crews were taken in charge, but several were stove and sank; so that when at last the Sandpiper steamed into Methlin port only four remained afloat.
It was late when they got in, and the first intimation of the safety of husband, brother, or sweetheart received was from the men themselves.
But oh, what joy was there! Some might have been seen dancing, others laughing and weeping by turns, while others knelt by their humble firesides and prayed aloud. It was an affecting scene.
But scenes like these, and many far more sad, are to be witnessed only too often on the wild Scottish coasts.
Concerning this very adventure, Thorn, the sweet bard of Ury, writes in graphic language—
"Man dies but once? O, say it not!
He lives again to die,
When the surly surly sea has taught
The hope-dissolving sigh,
When the stubborn arm, that strains for life,
Falls feebly on the oar;
When the loved last look of child and wife
Swims wildly o'er the settling strife,
O Death, what canst thou more!"