As they rowed out in the open water the men looked disappointed, and Steve, who was in the bows of the first boat with Johannes and Jakobsen, had to listen to the Scotch sailors’ banter, spoken to the Norwegians sometimes, but more often at the lad himself.
“Hahmeesh laddie,” said Andrew McByle, “if she hadna baith hands at the oar, she’d get out ta sneeshin’. Gie me a pinch. Hah! Ferry goot, laddie, ferry goot,” he continued, after helping himself to a pinch of snuff, and being able to use his hands for that. “She’ll hae chust ane more wee bit. Hah! Tak’ the box back, as she’ll pe for finishing it a’.”
They rowed on for a little while, with Hamish staring about and Andrew giving an occasional snort of contempt.
“See annything, Hahmeesh?”
“Na, naething.”
“Naething it is, laddie. Hech! And I thocht after a’ she’d heard tell tat the sea was chust alive wi’ the walrus and seal, and bear lived a’ along like wee birdies on the rocks.”
“Hey, to hear a’ they said,” grumbled Hamish, “she’d think sae. Ant there’s as many walrus coos and bulls here as ye see in ta Firth o’ Clyde if ye gang oop ta Glasgie.”
“Ye’re recht, laddie,” said Andrew, “chust as many. Why, it’s petter in ta Clyde, for she can see a porpoise pig, and there’s naething here but watter and ice. Wha are we gaen?”
“She canna tell,” said Hamish. “She’s thinkin’ it’s to pring the lang tyke oot for a ride.”
“If you call my collie a ‘lang tyke,’ Hamish, I’ll set him at you. Here, Skeny. Css!”