Jack Paterson was a poor crofter, who added to his scanty means by going to the deep-sea fishing, or, out of the fishing season, by burning kelp.  These occupations, combined with the produce of his croft, made up, I am afraid, a very poor living.  The cottage was small, so small that I always wondered how so large a family could live in its one little room with any comfort.  In the middle of the clay floor, on a stone slab, was a large peat fire, the smoke of which escaped by a hole in the roof, where the rain came through.  By the side of the fire were two large high-backed chairs entirely wisped round with straw, so that none of the framework could be seen.  In a great three-legged pot, which hung over the flaming peats by a chain from the bare rafters, some potatoes were boiling, and whilst they were cooking Jean Paterson cleaned and fried some of my fish, which came, I think, as a welcome addition to the family’s meal.

Jack Paterson was a very tall, muscular man, with a long red beard and soft brown eyes.  His hands were the largest I have ever seen; but the right one wanted a finger.  This, I believe, was the only exception that one could make in saying that Jack was absolutely perfect in his great manhood.  He would have made a splendid man-o’-war’s man, and the press gang had more than once tried to secure him.

Not till long afterwards, when, as pilots, we were out at sea together one clear starlight night, did he tell me how his finger was lost.  It happened at a time when the press gang were more than usually busy in Orkney pressing men for a frigate that lay in Stromness harbour.  The blue jackets had had their eyes upon Jack Paterson, but Jack, who was just about to be married to Jean Nicol, did not intend being caught; and he said to Jean one day that rather than enter the navy, he would cut one of his fingers off, and so make himself unfit for service.

One dark night he was walking along one of the country lanes with his sweetheart when a body of tars fell upon him, and, after a sharp fight, carried him off to an old stable in the town that served as a temporary lockup.  Very early the next morning Jean Nicol knocked gently at the stable door.

“Are ye there, Jack?” said she.

“Yes,” replied Jack; and his warders, who were two foretop men, allowed him to speak with her through the keyhole.

“I’ve brought your release,” said Jean.  “Put your hand under the door and I’ll give it to you.”

Jack put his right hand through under the door, and felt something cold placed across his forefinger.  Then there was a knock as of a mallet upon a chisel, and with a cry of anguish he drew in his hand streaming with blood.  Jean had cut off his finger.  Now, a man with a lame hand is of small account in the service, and so when the lieutenant came and saw Jack’s condition he released him, with a round curse at having lost so fine a man, and the frigate sailed away.