The combat had been sharp and effectual; but it was the outburst of an antagonism which had long been gathering strength; it was the practical declaration of an enmity that grew and lasted for many a day.

Chapter IX.  Captain Gordon.

I was oppressed with a weight of weariness by the time that I came within sight of Stromness.  After leaving Hercus and Rosson over at Yeskenaby, I met not a person until I reached the shores of Hamla Voe.  Here, however, on turning from the moorland path into the main road, I saw a stranger resting upon the low wall at the roadside.  He was evidently admiring the scene presented by the quiet bay of Stromness.

A barque lay at anchor in the harbour, her tall, tapering masts and taut ropes clearly defined against the gray sky.  Beyond the bright beacon light of the Ness, the sloping island of Graemsay could barely be distinguished from the deep purple mountains of Hoy, and along the line of the bay stood the gabled houses of the town, their dimly-lighted windows reflected on the water.

As I approached the stranger, I saw that he was a seafarer.

“Fine night, sir,” I said in salutation as I passed him.

“Ay, very fine.  What way is the wind, my lad?”

“Sou’-sou’-west,” I replied, looking up at a few flecks of white cloud in the clear sky.

“Are you going on to Stromness?  If so, I will walk along with you.  That’s a fine bird you’re carrying.  What do you call it?”

“A hen harrier, sir.  My dog caught it over on the moor.  Is that your barque lying in the bay, sir, the Lydia?”

“Ay; she’s a rakish craft, isn’t she?  We’re sailing again in the morning for South America.  Do you think we shall have a fair wind, my lad?”

“Yes, if it does not veer round too much to the westward.”

“You appear to have studied the weather,” he said.

“Yes,” I answered.  “In Stromness we all notice the wind, and father has taught me to know all the signs of the weather.”

“Then your father is a fisherman, I suppose?” he remarked, as he turned to walk down the brae with me.

“Father’s a pilot,” I said.  “I’m Sandy Ericson’s lad.”

“Ericson!  Ah!  I know Ericson.  He’s a splendid fellow, a regular Norseman, in fact.”

And then he proceeded to praise my father as I had so often before heard him praised, and with all of which I did not venture to disagree.

He spoke with me until we reached the entrance to the town, where I noticed Andrew Drever, my schoolmaster, walking in advance of us, carrying his rod under his arm and a string of fish in his hand.

“Good evening, sir!” I said, as we overtook him.

“Hello, Halcro, my lad!” he exclaimed, as cheerily as though he had not seen me for weeks.

“Good evening!” said my sailor companion to the dominie.  “I see you have some fine trout there.”