Both moved smartly, for, short as the time had been that they had served on board the Hvalross, Captain Marsham had drilled the men into something like the same habits as those of his old crew when he commanded a sloop in the Royal Navy, before he retired from the service and settled down at Dartmouth. Since then he had amused himself with his yacht, till, hearing of the non-return of his old friend Captain Young, he determined to fit out the Hvalross and make an expedition to the north, taking with him his ward, Stephen Young, who had long been importuning him to arrange for his going to sea.
The boat was waiting as Captain Marsham came to the edge of the little granite wharf, and they had just stepped in when a strange sound came floating through the silence of the soft, dreamy summer air, followed directly by a long-drawn, plaintive howl that was almost terrible in its despairing tone.
“What ever is that?” cried the doctor, starting up from his seat and shading his eyes to gaze at the anchored vessel.
“It’s Skene-dhu!” cried Steve. “What’s he howling at? Because we’re ashore?”
“Pipes,” said the man, who was now pulling steadily at one oar, while the boy tugged at the other.
“Pipes?” cried the captain. “What pipes? They surely don’t play the bagpipes in Norway?”
“No, sir. It’s Andra McByle brought his fra Oban.”
“There, pull, my lads!” said the captain, frowning. “We shall have plenty to depress us going north without winds of this description, eh, Steve?”
“Yes, it’s horrid,” said that young gentleman; and the boy who was rowing looked up at him sharply with a frown on his heavy brows.
And all the while the wild, weird strain grew louder, and the howling more piteous, till the boat reached the vessel’s side, when the drone and squeal of the pipes ceased on the instant, and the dog’s howl was changed to a loud, joyous bark, as his handsome head appeared at the gangway, the eyes flashing in the sunlight, ears cocked, and the thick mass of hair about the neck ruffled up.