I followed, and tried to make the animal loosen his grip of poor Peter.  He growled and spat as I approached him, and, fearing for the jackdaw’s life, I hammered with my fist upon the door of the schoolmaster’s press bed and called out:  “Mr. Drever!  Mr. Drever!”

The dominie opened the bed door and sprang out to the rescue, his red woollen nightcap upon his head.  But his help was of little use.  We managed to get the cat away from his prey; but the bird was fatally injured, blood was dripping from his neck as the good man took him up in his hands caressingly.

“Poor Peter, poor Peter!” said he; “who has done this thing?”

“William the Conqueror,” faintly uttered the bird.

Then giving a few feeble croaks, he died in the schoolmaster’s hands.

Andrew Drever’s tender emotion grew into anger as he thought of the murderer of his pet jackdaw, and he paced the room vowing vengeance against his mother’s cat, which had now escaped into comparative security on the top of the kitchen cupboard.

“Come down here, ye wretch!” he exclaimed, taking up a knife from the table and holding it up threateningly.  “Come down here, ye foul fiend.  How dare ye touch a feather o’ my Peter’s wing?”

“Dinna kill the cat, sir,” I interposed, reminding him that I was there to take the animal aboard the Lydia.

“Man, Halcro,” said Andrew, sobering down, “I wish you had taken him away yestreen.  But come, let us catch the brute and away with him, for he shall not bide in this house another hour.”

While Mr. Drever got an empty meal bag and held it open, I took a long broom handle, and, standing on a chair, forced the cat to come down.  We chased the animal about the room until we cornered him, when, putting the meal bag over his head, we made him a secure prisoner.  Tying up the bag with a string, and cutting some breathing holes, I carried the captive cat away, leaving Andrew Drever to grieve over the death of Peter the jackdaw.

When I rowed out to the Lydia in my little boat, the mist had melted away in the warmth of the sun.  The gray town, with its blue film of peat smoke slowly rising into the clear air, was reflected upon the smooth water that lapped and lisped against the stone piers.  The bubbling track of my boat as she plunged and curtsied in obedience to the oar strokes alone disturbed the calm surface of the bay; but beyond the shelter of the harbour a brisk breeze fluttered the Blue Peter at the barque’s foremast, and I did not fail to notice that it came from a favourable quarter.

Father was already aboard when my boat scraped gently along the ship’s side, and he threw a rope end down to me to climb up by.

Captain Gordon shook hands with me when I reached the quarterdeck.

“Well, my lad,” said he, “how d’ye think the Lydia looks for sea?”

“She looks well and trim,” I said, untying the mouth of the meal bag; “but I notice she has a slight list to the port side.”