“’Deed, I dinna ken about that, father,” said my mother, helping me to a plateful of fried sillocks.  “If it’s danger you’re wantin’ the laddie to seek, he’s seen o’er many dangers already, I’m thinking.  It’s nearly drowned he was, only a week ago, in the Barra Flow, swimming out after a dog that wasna worth the saving; and I have seen him mysel’ dangling over the Breckness cliffs, like a spider, at the end of a rope I would not have trusted to hang Lucky Drever’s cat with!  Danger, forsooth! the laddie is always in danger.”

It was like my mother to object to my taking to the sea, even for the pleasure of a sail.  Although she well knew that it was the only life open to an Orkney lad, yet she was ever anxious to delay its beginning, and at these words from her my father did not urge me further, but quietly watched me as I rose from the table and took from a rack over the window a small harpoon, the sharp point of which I tested by pressing it against my thumb.

“Oh, there’s a lad!” exclaimed Jessie.  “Off to the sealing when he might have a fine sail in the Curlew.  I wish I could get such a chance.”

“All right, lad!” interrupted my father.  “Away with you to the sealing.  You’ll get many another chance of a sail.  Who’s going with you?”

“Robbie Rosson and Willie Hercus and—­” I added with some hesitation, “Tom Kinlay,” for I knew my father did not entirely approve of Tom as a companion.

“Kinlay again?” he muttered, knitting his brows.  “I would advise you not to go with that lad so often.  But then you dinna ken what his father is, I suppose.”

It was seldom that I heard my father speak an ill word against any man.  I did not ask him any question, but his brief warning was enough to show me that there was some serious cause of enmity between him and Tom’s father, Carver Kinlay.

“Father,” I said, “I’ll not go with Tom if you object.”

“Object!” said he.  “What care I for the lad?  It’s the father that’s my enemy.  His bairns may be better than he.  Away to the sealing with you, and may you get good sport!”

And he followed me to the door.

Chapter V. The Hen Harrier.

I lingered about the little quay while my father and the crew were hoisting sail.  For a moment I questioned if I should not be happier in the bow of the Curlew, than tramping half a score of miles over rough uninteresting moorland on the chance of capturing a seal; but in the end I was satisfied in keeping to the plan arranged by my companions.  I waited only to see the boat bend over in the fresh breeze as she sailed outward to the ships; then, armed with my harpoon and a knobbed stick, I hastened out of Stromness, followed by my dog.

Selta (so called after one of our native streams) was a long-bodied, long-haired animal, with a touch of the otter hound in her nature.  I got her from Colin Lothian, an old “gaberlunzie” man who travelled our countryside.  He gave me the dog when she was a young thing, and he had another of the same litter which followed him wherever he went about the island.