And it seemed the solan understood about signals.  For nae sooner was the signal made than he let be the rope, spried his wings, squawked out loud, took a turn flying, and dashed straucht at Tam Dale’s een.  Tam had a knife, he gart the cauld steel glitter.  And it seemed the solan understood about knives, for nae suner did the steel glint in the sun than he gied the ae squawk, but laigher, like a body disappointit, and flegged aff about the roundness of the craig, and Tam saw him nae mair.  And as sune as that thing was gane, Tam’s held drapt upon his shouther, and they pu’d him up like a deid corp, dadding on the craig.

A dram of brandy (which he went never without) broucht him to his mind, or what was left of it.  Up he sat.

“Rin, Geordie, rin to the boat, mak’ sure of the boat, man—­rin!” he cries, “or yon solan ’ll have it awa’,” says he.

The fower lads stared at ither, an’ tried to whilly-wha him to be quiet.  But naething, would satisfy Tam Dale, till ane o’ them had startit on aheid to stand sentry on the boat.  The ithers askit if he was for down again.

“Na,” says he, “and niether you nor me,” says he, “and as sune as I can win to stand on my twa feet we’ll be aff frae this craig o’ Sawtan.”

Sure eneuch, nae time was lost, and that was ower muckle; for before they won to North Berwick Tam was in a crying fever.  He lay a’ the simmer; and wha was sae kind as come speiring for him, but Tod Lapraik!  Folk thocht afterwards that ilka time Tod cam near the house the fever had worsened.  I kenna for that; but what I ken the best, that was the end of it.

It was about this time o’ the year; my grandfaither was out at the white fishing; and like a bairn, I but to gang wi’ him.  We had a grand take, I mind, and the way that the fish lay broucht us near in by the Bass, whaur we forgaithered wi’ anither boat that belanged to a man Sandie Fletcher in Castleton.  He’s no lang deid niether, or ye could spier at himsel’.  Weel, Sandie hailed.

“What’s yon on the Bass?” says he.

“On the Bass?” says grandfaither.

“Ay,” says Sandie, “on the green side o’t.”

“Whatten kind of a thing?” says grandfaither.  “There cannae be naething on the Bass but just the sheep.”

“It looks unco like a body,” quo’ Sandie, who was nearer in.

“A body!” says we, and we nane of us likit that.  For there was nae boat that could have broucht a man, and the key o’ the prison yett hung ower my faither’s held at hame in the press bed.

We keept the twa boats closs for company, and crap in nearer hand.  Grandfaither had a gless, for he had been a sailor, and the captain of a smack, and had lost her on the sands of Tay.  And when we took the gless to it, sure eneuch there was a man.  He was in a crunkle o’ green brae, a wee below the chaipel, a’ by his lee lane, and lowped and flang and danced like a daft quean at a waddin’.