_ CHAPTER THREE. THE GUEST FROM LONDON
It was well on in the afternoon when Scoodrach, who was lying upon his chest with his chin resting on the boat's gunwale, suddenly exclaimed,--
"There she is."
The sun was shining down hotly, there was not a breath of air, and Kenneth, who seemed as languid as the drooping sails, slowly turned his head round to look at a cloud of smoke which appeared to be coming round a distant point of land.
Hours had passed since they sailed away from Dunroe, and for a time they had had a favourable wind; then it had drooped suddenly, leaving the sea like glass, and the boat rising and falling softly upon the swell. There had been nothing to shoot but gulls, which, knowing they were safe, had come floating softly round, looking at them with inquiring eyes, and then glided away. They had gazed down through the water at the waving tangle, and watched the shoals of glistening young fish. They had whistled for wind, but none had come, and then, as they lay in the boat at the mercy of the swift tide, the hot hours of the noontide had glided by, even as the current which bore them along the shore, helpless unless they had liked to row, and that they had not liked to do upon such a glowing day.
"I don't believe that's she," said Kenneth lazily. "That's the cargo boat. Grenadier must have gone by while you were asleep."
"While she wass what?" cried Scood sharply. "Haven't been to sleep."
"Yes, you have. You snored till the boat wobbled."
"She didn't. She never does snore. It wass you."
"All right. Dessay it was," said Kenneth, yawning. "Oh, I say, Scood, I'm getting so hungry, and we can't get back."
"Yes, we can. We shall have to row."
"I'm not going to row all those miles against tide, I can tell you."
"Very well. We shall have to wait."
"I can't wait. I want my dinner."
"It is the Grenadier!" cried Scood, after a long look. "I can see her red funnel."
"You can't at this distance."
"Yes, I can. The sun's shining on it; and there's the wind coming."
"How do you know?"
"Look at the smoke. We shall get home by six."
"But I'm hungry now. I shall have to shoot something to eat. I say, Scood, why shouldn't I shoot you?"
"Don't know," said Scoodrach, grinning.
"Wonder whether you'd be tough."
"Wait and eat him," said Scood, grinning.
"Eat whom?"
"The London laddie."
Kenneth, in his idle, drowsy fit, had almost forgotten the visitor, and he roused up now, and gazed earnestly at the approaching cloud of smoke, for the steamer was quite invisible.
"It is the _Grenadier_," said Kenneth; "and she's bringing the wind with her."
"Shouldn't say _she_," muttered Scood.
"Yes, I should, stupid. Ships are shes."
"Said you'd kick me if I said 'she,'" muttered Scood.
"So I will if you call me 'she.' I'm not a ship. Hurrah! Here's the wind at last."
For the mainsail began to shiver slightly, and the glassy water to send forth scintillations instead of one broad silvery gleam.
Kenneth seized the tiller, and the next minute they were gliding through the water, trying how near the duck-shaped boat would sail to the wind.
For the next half-hour they were tacking to and fro right in the course of the coming steamer, till, judging their distance pretty well, sail was lowered, oars put out, and they rowed till the faces which crowded the forward part of the swift boat were plain to see. Soon after, while the cloud of smoke seemed to have become ten times more black, and the cloud of gulls which accompanied the steamer by contrast more white, the paddles ceased churning up the clear water and sending it astern in foam, a couple of men in blue jerseys stood ready to throw a rope, which Scood caught, and turned round the thwart forward, and Kenneth stood up, gazing eagerly at the little crowd by the paddle-box.
"How are you, captain?"
"How are you, squire?"
"Any one for us?"
"Yes. Young gent for Dunroe," said a man with a gold-braided cap.
"Where is he?"
"Here just now. Here's his luggage," said one of the men in blue jerseys. "There he is."
"Now then, sir! Look alive, please."
"But--"
"This way, sir."
"Must I--must I get down?--that small boat!"
Kenneth stared at the pallid-looking youth, who stood shrinking back, almost in wonder, as the visitor clung to the gangway rail, and gazed in horror at the boat dancing in the foaming water.
"Ketch hold."
"All right."
There was the rapid passing down of luggage--portmanteau, hat-box, bag, gun-case, sheaf of fishing-rods, and bale of wrappers; and, as Scood secured these, Kenneth held out his hand.
"Come along," he said. "It's all right."
"But--"
"Look sharp, sir, please; we can't stop all day."
Evidently in an agony of dread and shame, the stranger stepped down into the boat, staggered, clung to Kenneth, and, as he was forced down to a seat, clung to it with all his might. Scood cast off the rope; the captain on the bridge made his bell ting in the engine-room, a burst of foam came rushing from beneath the paddle-box, the little boat danced up and down, the great steamer glided rapidly on, and Kenneth and Scoodrach gazed in an amused way at the new occupant of the boat.
"We've been waiting for you--hours," said Kenneth at last. "How are you?"
"I'm quite well, thank--I mean, I'm not at all well, thank you," said the visitor, shaking hands limply, and then turning to look at Scood, as if wondering whether he should shake hands there.
"That's only Scood, my gillie," said Kenneth hastily. "Did we get all your luggage?"
"I--I don't know," said the visitor in a helpless way. "I hope so. At least, I don't mind. It has been such a rough passage!"
"Rough?" shouted Kenneth.
"Yes; terribly. The steamer went up and down so. I felt very ill."
"Been beautiful here. Now, Scood, don't sit staring there. Shove some of those things forward and some aft."
Scood jumped up, the boat gave a lurch, and the visitor uttered a gasp.
"Mind!" he cried.
"Oh, he's all right," said Kenneth bluffly. "When he has no shoes on he can hold by his toes. Come and sit aft."
"No, thank you; I would rather not move. I did not know it would be so rough at sea, or I would have come by train."
"Train! You couldn't come to Dunroe by train."
"Couldn't I?"
"No."
"Oh!--Are you Mr Kenneth Mackhai?"
"I'm Kenneth Mackhai," said the lad rather stiffly. "My father asked me to come and meet you--and, er--we're very glad to see you."
"Thank you. It was very kind of you; but I am not used to the sea, and I should have preferred landing at the pier and coming on in a cab or a fly."
"Pier! There's no pier near us."
"No pier? But never mind. You are very good. Would you mind setting me ashore now?"
"Ashore! What for?"
"To--to go on to the house. I would rather walk."
Kenneth laughed, and then checked himself.
"It's ten miles' sail from here home, and it would be twenty round by the mountain-road. We always go by boat."
"By boat? In this boat?" faltered the visitor.
"Yes. She skims along like a bird."
"Then--I couldn't--walk?"
"Walk? No. We'll soon run you home. Sorry it was so rough. But there's a lovely wind now. Come aft here, and we'll hoist the sail. That's right, Scood. Now there's room to move."
"Could--could you call back the steamer?" said the stranger hoarsely.
"Call her back? No; she's a mile away nearly. Look!"
The visitor gave a despairing stare at the steamer, and the wake of foam she had left behind.
"You will be all right directly," said Kenneth, suppressing his mirth. "You're not used to the sea?"
"No."
"We are. There, give me your hand. You sit there aft and hold the tiller, while I help Scood run up the sails."
"Thank you, I'm much obliged. But if you could set me ashore."
"It's three miles away," said Kenneth, glancing at the mainland.
"No, no; I mean there."
"There? That's only a rocky island with a few sheep on it. And there's such a wild race there, it's dangerous at this time of the tide."
"Are they savages?"
"Savages?"
"Yes; the wild race."
"Poof!"
"Be quiet, Scood, or I'll chuck you overboard. What are you laughing at? I mean race of the tide. Look, you can see the whirlpools. It's the Atlantic rushing in among the rocks. Now then, come along."
The visitor would not rise to his feet, but crept over to the after part of the boat, where he crouched more than sat, starting violently as the light craft swayed with the movements of its occupants, and began to dance as well with the rising sea.
"I'm afraid you think I'm a terrible coward."
"That's just what I do think," said Kenneth to himself; but he turned round with a look of good-humoured contempt. "Oh no," he said aloud; "you'll soon get used to it. Now, Scood, heave ahoy. Look here, we can't help it. If you laugh out at him, I'll smash you."
"But look at him," whispered Scood.
"I daren't, Scood. Heave ahoy!"
"Take care! Mind!" cried the visitor in agony.
"What's the matter?"
"I--I thought--Pray don't do that!"
Kenneth could not refrain from joining in Scood's mirth, but he checked himself directly, and gave the lad a punch in the ribs, as he hauled at the mainsail.
"You'll have the boat over!" cried the shivering guest, white now with agony, as the sail filled and the boat careened, and began to rush through the water.
"Take more than that to send her over," cried Kenneth merrily, as he took the tiller. "Plenty of wind now, Scood."
Scoodrach laughed, and their passenger clung more tightly to his seat.
For the wind was rising to a good stiff breeze, the waves were beginning to show little caps of foam, and to the new-comer it seemed utter madness to be seated in such a frail cockle-shell, which kept on lying over from the pressure on the sail, and riding across the waves which hissed and rushed along the sides, and now and then sent a few drops flying over the sail.
"You'll soon get used to it," cried Kenneth, who felt disposed at first to be commiserating and ready to pity his guest; but the abject state of dread displayed roused the spirit of mischief latent in the lad, and, after a glance or two at Scoodrach, he felt compelled to enjoy his companion's misery.
"Is--is there any danger?" faltered the poor fellow at last, as the boat seemed to fly through the water.
"No, not much. Unless she goes down, eh, Scood?"
"Oh, she shall not go down chust direckly," said Scoodrach seriously. "She's a prave poat to sail."
"What's the matter?" cried Kenneth, as his passenger looked wildly round.
"Have you--a basin on board?" he faltered.
This was too much for the others. Scoodrach burst into a roar of laughter, in which Kenneth joined for a minute, and then, checking himself, he apologised.
"Nonsense!" he said; "you keep a stout heart. You'll like it directly. Got a line, Scood?"
"Yes; twa."
"Bait 'em and throw 'em out; we may get a mackerel or two."
"They've got spinners on them," said the lad sententiously, as he opened a locker in the bows, and took out a couple of reels.
"Don't--go quite so fast," said the visitor imploringly.
"Why not? It's safer like this--eh, Scood?"
"Oh yes; she's much safer going fast."
"But the waves! They'll be in the boat directly."
"Won't give 'em time to get in--will we, Scood? Haul in that sheet a little tighter."
This was done, and the boat literally rushed through the water.
"There, you're better already, aren't you?"
"I--I don't know."
"Oh, but I do. You'll want to have plenty of sails like this."
"In the young master's poat," said Scoodrach, watching the stranger with eyes which sparkled with mischief. "Wouldn't the young chentleman like to see the Grey Mare's Tail?"
"Ah, to be sure!" cried Kenneth; "you'd like to see that."
"Is--is the grey mare ashore?" faltered the visitor.
"Yes, just round that point--a mile ahead."
"Yes, please--I should like to see that," said the guest, with a sigh of relief, for he seemed to see safety in being nearer the shore.
"All right! We'll run for it," cried Kenneth; and he slightly altered the boat's course, so as to draw a little nearer to the land. "Wind's getting up beautifully."
"Getting up?"
"Yes. Blow quite a little gale to-night, I'll be bound."
"Is--is there any danger?"
"Oh, I don't know. We get a wreck sometimes--don't we, Scood?"
"Oh ay, very fine wrecks sometimes, and plenty of people trowned!"
"You mean wrecks of ships?"
"Yes; and boats too, like this--eh, Scood?"
"Oh yes; poats like this are often wrecked, and go to the pottom," said Scood maliciously.
There was a dead silence in the boat, during which Kenneth and Scood exchanged glances, and their tired companion clutched the seat more tightly.
"I say, your name's Blande, isn't it?" said Kenneth suddenly.
"Yes; Maximilian--I mean Max Blande."
"And you are going to stay with us?"
"I suppose so."
The lad gave his tormentor a wistful look, but it had no effect.
"Long?"
"I don't know. My father said I was to come down here. Is it much farther on?"
"Oh yes, miles and miles yet. We shall soon show you the Grey Mare's Tail now."
"Couldn't we walk the rest of the way, then?"
"Walk! No. Could we, Scood?"
"No, we couldn't walk," said the lad addressed; "and who'd want to walk when we've got such a peautiful poat?"
There was another silence, during which the boat rushed on, with Kenneth trickily steering so as to make their way as rough as possible, both boys finding intense enjoyment in seeing the pallid, frightened looks of their guest, and noting the spasmodic starts he gave whenever a little wave came with a slap against the bows and sprinkled them.
"I say, who's your father?" said Kenneth suddenly.
"Mr Blande of Lincoln's Inn. You are Mr Mackhai's son, are you not?"
"I am The Mackhai's son," cried Kenneth, drawing himself up stiffly.
"Yes; there's no Mr Mackhai here," cried Scoodrach fiercely. "She's the Chief."
"She isn't, Scood. Oh, what an old dummy you are!"
"Well, so she is the chief."
"So she is! Ah, you! Look here, you, Max Blande: my father's the Chief of the Clan Mackhai."
"Is he? Is it much further, to the grey mare's stable?" faltered the passenger.
The two boys roared with laughter, Max gazing from one to the other rather pitifully.
"Did I say something very stupid?" he asked mildly.
"Yes, you said stable," cried Kenneth, wiping his eyes. "I say, Scood, wait till he sees the Grey Mare."
"Yes; wait till she sees the Grey Mare," cried Scood, bending double with mirth.
Max drew in a long breath, and gazed straight before him at the sea, and then to right and left of the fiord through which they were rapidly sailing. He saw the shore some three miles away on their left, and a couple to their right, a distance which they were reducing, as the boat, with the wind well astern, rushed on.
"It's too bad to laugh at you," said Kenneth, smoothing the wrinkles out of his face.
"I don't know what I said to make you laugh," replied Max, with a piteous look.
"Then wait till you see the Grey Mare's Tail, and you will."
"I don't think I want to see it. I would rather you set me ashore, and let me walk."
"Didn't I tell you that you couldn't walk home? Besides, every one goes to see the Grey Mare's Tail--eh, Scood?"
There was a nod and a mirthful look which troubled the visitor, who sat with his face contracted, and a spasm seeming to run through him every time the boat made a leap and dive over some wave.
They were running rapidly now toward a huge mass of rock, which ran gloomy looking and forbidding into the sea, evidently forming one of the points of a bay beyond. The mountains came here very close to the sea, and it was as if by some convulsion of nature the great buttress had been broken short off, leaving a perpendicular face of rock, along whose narrow ledges grey and black birds were sitting in scores.
"See the birds?" cried Kenneth, as they sped on rapidly, Max gaining a little confidence as he found that the boat did not go right over from the pressure of the wind on the sail.
"Are those birds?" he said.
"Yes; gulls and cormorants and puffins. Did you feed Macbrayne's pigeons as you came along?"
"No," said Max quietly; "I did not see them."
"Oh, come, I know better than that. Didn't you come up Loch Fyne in the Columba?"
"The great steamer? Yes."
"Well, didn't you see a large flock of grey gulls flying with you all the way?"
"Oh yes, and some people threw biscuits to them. They were like a great grey and white cloud."
"Well, I call them Macbrayne's pigeons."
"Are we going ashore here?" said Max eagerly, as they neared the point, about which the swift tide foamed and leaped furiously, the waves causing a deep, low roar to rise as they fretted among the tumbled chaos of rocks.
"I hope not. Eh, Scood?"
"Hope not! Why?"
"Because the sea would knock the boat to pieces. That's all."
"Hah!"
Max drew his breath with a low hiss, and gazed sharply from Kenneth to the foaming water they were approaching so swiftly, and now, with the little knowledge he had gained, the lowering mass of rock began to look terribly forbidding, and the birds which flew shrieking away seemed to be uttering cries of warning.
"Hadn't you better pull the left rein--I mean steer away, if it's so dangerous?"
"No; I'm going in between those two rocks, close in. Plenty of water now, isn't there, Scood?"
"Not plenty; enough to clear the rock," was the reply.
"Sit fast, and you'll see what a rush through we shall go. Hold tight."
Max set his teeth, and his eyes showed a complete circle of white about the iris as the boat careened over, and, feeling now the current which raced foaming around the point, he had a strange catching of the breath, while his hands clung spasmodically to the thwart and side.
The huge mass of frowning rock seemed to be coming to meet them; the grey-winged birds flew hither and thither; the water, that had been dark blue flecked with white, suddenly became one wild race of foam, such as he had seen behind the paddle-boxes of the steamers during his run up from Glasgow. There was the perpendicular wall on his right, and a cluster of black crags on his left, and toward these the boat was rushing at what seemed to him a terrific rate. It was like running wildly to their death; but Kenneth was seated calmly holding the tiller, and Scood half lay back, letting one hand hang over and splash amongst the foam.
Hiss, roar, rush, and a spray of spattering drops of the beaten waves splashed over them as they raced on, passing through the opening at a rate which made Max Blande feel dizzy. Then, just as the boat careened over till the bellying sail almost touched the low crags on their left, it made quite a leap, rose upright, the pressure on the sail ceased, the rush of wind seemed to be suddenly cut off, and they were gliding rapidly along in an almost waveless bay, with a deep, loud, thunderous roar booming into their ears.
"What do you think of that?" cried Kenneth, laughing in his guest's astonished face.
"I--I don't know. Is anything broken?"
"Broken? No. We're under the shelter of the great point."
"Oh, I see. But what's that noise? Thunder?"
"Thunder? No. That's the Grey Mare wagging her tail."
"Poof!"
Scood exploded again.
"You are laughing at me," said Max quietly. "I can't help being so ignorant."
"Never mind, we'll show you. I say, Scood, there's wind enough to carry us by if we go close in."
"No, there isn't; keep out."
"Shan't. Get out the oars and help!"
"Best keep out," grumbled Scood.
"You get out the oars--do you hear?"
Scood frowned, and slowly laid out the oars, as he took his place on the forward thwart, after a glance at the sail, which barely filled now.
"She aren't safe to go near," he said sulkily.
"Does she kick?" said Max eagerly.
Kenneth burst into a fresh roar of laughter.
"Oh yes, sometimes," he said, "right into the boat."
Scood sat with the oars balanced, and a grim smile upon his countenance, while Max looked sharply from one to the other, and, seeing that there was something he did not grasp, he sat watchful and silent, while the boat, in the full current which swept round the bay, glided rapidly out toward the farther point, from behind which the thunderous roar seemed to come.
In another minute they were close to the point, round which the tide flowed still and deep, and directly after Max held his breath, as the boat glided on, with the sail flapping, towards where in one wild leap a torrent of white water came clear out from a hundred feet above, to plunge sullenly into the sea.
"That's the Grey Mare's Tail," cried Kenneth, raising his voice so as to be heard above the heavy roar; and the fall bore no slight resemblance to the long white sweeping appendage of some gigantic beast, reaching from the face of the precipice to the sea.
Max felt awe-stricken, for, saving on canvas, he had never seen anything of the kind before. It was grand, beautiful, and thrilling to see the white water coming foaming down, and seeming to make the sea boil; but the perspiration came out on the lad's brow as he realised the meaning of what had passed, and understood Scood's remonstrances, for it was evident that the boat was drawing rapidly toward the fall, and that in the shelter of the tremendous cliff there was not sufficient wind to counteract the set of the current.
Scood gave one glance over his shoulder, and began to row hard, while for a moment Kenneth laughed; but directly after he realised that there was danger, and, leaving the tiller, he stepped forward, sat down hastily, and caught the oar Scood passed to him.
A minute of intense anxiety passed, during which the two lads rowed with all their might. But, in spite of their efforts, the boat glided nearer and nearer to the falling water, and it seemed but a matter of moments before they would be drawn right up to where the cataract came thundering down.
"Pull, Scood!" shouted Kenneth. "Pull!"
Scoodrach did not reply, but dragged at his oar, and for a few moments they made way; then surely and steadily the boat glided toward the fall, having to deal with the tide and the natural set of the surface toward the spot where the torrent poured in.
Max Blande grasped all now, and, ignorant of such matters as he was, he could still realise that from foolhardiness his companion had run the boat into a terrible danger beyond his strength to counteract.
There it was, plain enough: if they could not battle with the steady, insidious current which was slowly bearing them along, in another minute the torrent would fill the boat and plunge them down into the chaos of foaming water, from which escape would be impossible.
"Quick! here!" cried Kenneth in a shrill voice, heard above the deep humming roar of the fall. "Push--push!"
For a few moments Max could not grasp his meaning, but, when he did, he placed his hands against the oar, and thrust at each stroke with all his might.
For a few moments the extra strength seemed to tell, but Max's help was weak, and not enough to counteract the failing efforts of the two lads, who in their excitement rowed short, and without the steady strain wanted in such a time of peril.
"It's no good," cried Scood hoarsely. "She'll go town, and we must swim."
His voice rang out shrilly in the din of the torrent, but he did not cease pulling, for Kenneth shouted back,--
"Pull--pull! Will you pull?" He bent to his oar as he spoke, and once more they seemed to make a little way, but only for a few moments; and, as Max Blande looked up over his shoulder, it seemed to him that the great white curve was right above him, and even as he looked quite a shower of foam came spattering down into the boat. _