There was a dead silence on the old grey terrace for a few minutes. The gulls wailed as they swept here and there over the glistening sea, and the golden-red and brown weed washed to and fro among the rocks.
“I ask you to go, Ken,” said Max gently. “Don’t refuse me this. Scood, my things are packed; fetch them down. Kenneth Mackhai, I shall go to-day; take me to meet the steamer, just as you came to meet me six weeks ago.”
Ken looked at him half wonderingly.
“Do you mean it?” he said hoarsely.
“Yes. You will?”
“Yes.”
An hour had not passed before the white-sailed boat was softly bending over to the breeze, and almost in silence the three lads sat gazing before them, heedless of the glorious panorama of mountain, fiord, and fall that seemed to be gliding by, till far away in the distance they could see the red funnel of David Macbrayne’s swift steamer pouring forth its trailing clouds of black smoke, which seemed to reach for miles.
Then by degrees the steamer grew plainer, the white water could be seen foaming behind the beating paddles, and the figures of the passengers on deck. Then the faces grew clearer, and there was a scurry by the gangway, and almost directly after the paddles ceased churning up the clear water, the sail dropped down. Scoodrach caught the rope that was thrown; the portmanteaus, gun-case, and rods were passed up, and, not trusting himself to speak, Max grasped Scoodrach’s hand, pressing a couple of sovereigns therein, seized Kenneth’s for a moment, and then leaped on board.
The rope was cast off; there was a loud ting from the captain’s bell, the paddles revolved, the boat glided astern, with Kenneth sitting despondently on one of the thwarts, and some one at Max’s elbow said to another hard by,—
“See that red-headed Scotch boy?”