CHAPTER VII.
BLUE PETER.
The door of Blue Peter’s cottage was opened by his sister. Not much at home in the summer, when she carried fish to the country, she was very little absent in the winter, and as there was but one room for all uses, except the closet bedroom and the garret at the top of the ladder, Malcolm, instead of going in, called to his friend, whom he saw by the fire with his little Phemy upon his knee, to come out and speak to him.
Blue Peter at once obeyed the summons.
“There’s naething wrang, I houp, Ma’colm?” he said, as he closed the door behind him.
“Maister Graham wad say,” returned Malcolm, “naething ever was wrang but what ye did wrang yersel’, or wadna pit richt whan ye had a chance. I ha’e him nae mair to gang till, Joseph, an’ sae I’m come to you. Come doon by, an’ i’ the scoug o’ a rock, I’ll tell ye a’ aboot it.”
“Ye wadna ha’e the mistress no ken o’ ’t?” said his friend. “I dinna jist like haein’ secrets frae her.”
“Ye sall jeedge for yersel’, man, an’ tell her or no jist as ye like. Only she maun haud her tongue, or the black dog’ll ha’e a’ the butter.”
“She can haud her tongue like the tae-stane o’ a grave,” said Peter.
As they spoke they reached the cliff that hung over the shattered shore. It was a clear, cold night. Snow, the remnants of the last storm, which frost had preserved in every shadowy spot, lay all about them. The sky was clear, and full of stars, for the wind that blew cold from the north-west had dispelled the snowy clouds. The waves rushed into countless gulfs and crannies and straits on the ruggedest of shores, and the sounds of waves and wind kept calling like voices from the unseen. By a path, seemingly fitter for goats than men, they descended half-way to the beach, and under a great projection of rock stood sheltered from the wind. Then Malcolm turned to Joseph Mair, commonly called Blue Peter, because he had been a man-of-war’s man, and laying his hand on his arm said:
“Blue Peter, did ever I tell ye a lee?”