As for myself, my life seemed empty of ambition, now that the Curlew was sunk and my father and the men had gone.  I had learnt to hope that I might be a pilot some day; but where were my prospects now?  That I must go out to some work was evident, but what was to be the nature of that work was left to more mature consideration, or to some happy chance or opportunity.  In the meantime I was to remain away from school.

There was no lack of sympathy for us on the part of our neighbours for many days after the accident.  Mr. Moir, the minister, was among the first who called, bringing much comfort to my poor widowed mother; the schoolmaster also came, with great sorrow on his face, and many a good word he spoke of my father; while Captain Gordon visited us again and again so long as his ship lay in port.

Chapter XXIII.  Gray’s Inn.

About midway along the crooked, narrow street of Stromness stood the one house of entertainment of the port—­Gray’s Inn—­where the wind-bound sailors and idle fishermen usually regaled themselves and spun yarns.  The host, Oliver Gray, who was himself a retired seaman, had sought to attract his customers by hanging out over his front door a sign which was calculated to win the good opinion of all seafaring folk.  It was a representation of a clipper in full sail on a raw green sea.  Oliver took great pride in this picture, and it was commonly believed that he had had a hand in the painting of it.  When it was praised he was profuse in his acknowledgments; but if a critical captain asked him how it was that, though the ship was sailing before the wind, yet her colours were all flying aft, or inquired whether it was grass or cabbages she sailed upon, Oliver was less eager to claim any artistic ability, and hurried the critic into the house lest he should also discover that the shrouds had been omitted by the painter.

Gray’s Inn was not an ordinary public house, and beyond the signboard announcement that “Spiritis and aile is retailed here” there was little to indicate its commercial character.  The parlour was a large room with a window at each end—­one facing the street, the other being so situated that the seamen sitting at the large centre table could look out at their ships riding at anchor across the bay.  There was no counter or bar, and the liquor was brought “ben” by Oliver or his sonsie wife.

One Saturday morning I had to go there to see old David Flett about a boat that Captain Gordon wanted to buy from him.  I found him at the inn before me, sitting there with a goodly company of Stromness men and skippers, whose ships were, like the Lydia, undergoing repairs or waiting for fair winds.

When I went in he was talking with a skipper whom he was evidently well acquainted with.  This was Captain Wemyss of The Duncans, outward bound for Bombay.  Wemyss had been lying in the harbour for over a week, and now that fair weather had come, and the wind was veering round to a favourable quarter, he was contemplating weighing anchor.  His vessel was a full-rigged ship, the largest in the bay; and all the other skippers seemed to pay him a degree of respect equal to the size of his ship.  They looked upon him with such deference, indeed, that not one of them would think of heaving anchor until he led the way.