I had not yet forgiven Tom for what he had done a few days earlier than this spring morning.  It happened this way: 

Four of us had a boat out on the bay, and we sailed about from point to point, fancying ourselves sailors voyaging on foreign seas.  Our dinghy, we imagined, was a sailing vessel, and the broad bay of Stromness represented the Atlantic Ocean.  The Outer Holm we called “America,” Graemsay Island was “Africa,” and the Ness Point was “Spain,” while a small rock that stood far out in the bay was “St. Helena.”  Tom Kinlay was, by his own appointment, our skipper; Robbie Rosson and Willie Hercus were classed able seamen; and my dog, Selta, and I were called upon to do duty for both passengers and cargo, curiously enough, sailing with the ship on every voyage.

We had touched at each of these places in turn, and when we were homeward bound I was landed at an imaginary port in “Spain.”  The boat had pushed off, when I called out to the skipper that I would walk home to Stromness if he would take the ship into port.

I had returned home and was seated at dinner, when I thought of the dog and looked about for her.  But she had not come back; so I went down to the jetty at the end of the Anchor Close, to see if I could discover the boat or any of the lads.  Standing there I heard the dog’s bark across the water, and what was my consternation to see my pet stranded like a castaway on “St. Helena”!  She was tethered by a rope to the rock, and could not escape without help.  The tide was rising, and the rock barely visible above the water.  In a few minutes my dog would be drowned.  No boat was near at hand, and there was nothing for it but that I should swim out to the rescue, so I had to strip there on the jetty and plunge in.  The swim was a long one, and I reached the rock only just in time.  The dog had been marooned on that little island, but Tom Kinlay had fastened up the boat and gone home, caring nothing, and neither of the other lads dared so far offend him as to attempt to rescue poor Selta without his permission.

As I sat fishing on the pier, I was thinking of Kinlay’s attitude towards me, and wondering if I should ever be able to hold my own against him in our outdoor intercourse as easily as I certainly could hold it in our class at school.  But soon I was interrupted by feeling another twitch at my line.  I hauled in another sillock; and having now completed my two dozen fish, I gathered them and my lines together, thrust my fishhooks into my trousers’ pocket, and went off to school, only staying a few minutes on the way to give the fish to my sister Jessie, and get my slate and books in exchange.

Chapter II.  Andrew Drever’s School

Our schoolhouse was situated on the braeside above the main street of Stromness.  It was a plain stone building with crow-step gables and a slated roof; and the only indication of its purpose was a large board over the door, upon which Andrew Drever had himself imprinted the word “School” in bold black letters on a white ground.