“I don’t know about that,” I said.  “For my part I shouldn’t have objected to Thora coming with us.  As for the hen harrier, I don’t doubt that what she said was quite true.  It’s well known that she’s one of the best cliff climbers of us all.”

“Tut! you always side with the lassies, Ericson.  That’s because you’re aye beside them at the head of the class.  What was it that old Duke gave her this morning?  Was it a bawbee?”

“I took no notice of what it was, Tom,” I replied.  “But it was very kind of him to give her anything.”

“It was a sixpence he gave her,” said Robbie Rosson.  “I saw the colour of it.”

“A sixpence!” exclaimed Tom.  “The sneak that she is!  Let’s go back and make her give us a share of it.”

“Get away, man,” said Robbie.  “What is it to us though the bailie gave her a dozen sixpences?  He’d have given it to any of us if we’d been at the head of the class.”

The discussion upon Thora ended here, and we continued our walk in comparative silence.

Willie Hercus was waiting for us when we reached the hill of Yeskenaby.  Hercus was a barefooted, red-haired boy, with gray eyes that were almost hidden in the fatness of his cheeks, and totally so when he laughed, as he invariably did on the least provocation.  His brow and nose were covered with brown freckles, like a turkey’s egg; and he wore a large sea jacket that had belonged to his father, one of the crew of the Curlew.

We walked leisurely along the brink of the Black Craigs—­a line of steep cliffs bordering the western portion of the Mainland.  At times a hoodie crow would fly across our path, or the red grouse be startled from their nests in the freshly-budding heather; and sea fowl in large numbers sailed gracefully over our heads or deep down the cliffs, making the chasms echo with their ceaseless screaming.

We made no attempt to kill or capture any of the birds.  One bird, however, we did take, and that more by accident than intention.  It happened this way: 

My dog was trotting before us, with her nose to the ground, when suddenly she made a run through the short heather after a lapwing, which was, or pretended to be, unable to fly.  I think it was trying to decoy the dog away from its nest.  As we watched the chase, Tom cried out: 

“Look, look, there’s a hawk after them!”

And, indeed, so it was.  The lapwing ran with wondrous speed, and before Selta had time to snap at it a hawk had nipped in before the dog’s nose in the attempt to rob her of her prey.  Unfortunately for the larger bird, however, the dog’s snap, intended for the fugitive, came upon the hawk’s outstretched neck.  The lapwing escaped unhurt, and flew screaming into the air, but Selta held to the hawk till we ran up and helped her.  I managed to secure the bird’s wings, which flapped about with surprising strength, while Tom held its struggling legs.

“Thraw its neck, thraw its neck!” cried Rosson, now coming up to us.