“Stand by the jib-sheet,” cried McBain. “Ease away; now luff, my lady.”
The cutter was laid nearly lee-rail under, but she bore it wonderfully well. Then sail was taken in, for, said McBain, “We’ll have more of these gentry.” And so they had, and it was more than an hour ere they doubled Ru-Hunish Point, and bore away for the Aird. Once round here the danger was over, and they were no longer on a lee shore.
I myself never could see the good of a squall, either white or black, and either of them are dangerous enough in all conscience when they take you unawares, but it is said there is good in all things. Be this as it may, the squalls the cutter had gone through seemed to clear the summer air in a remarkable manner, for even the glass began to rise, and with it the spirits of those on board.
It was a fair wind now all the way to Portree, and they made the best of it, Rory being once more in his favourite seat with tiller in hand. Past that mysterious mountain called Quiraing, onwards and past the tartan rock, over the precipitous sides of which a cataract was pouring into the sea, so that you might have sailed a boat between the water and the cliff; past the bay of Steinscholl, past the point of Braddan, past the strange weird rocks of Storr, with Rona Isle and Raasay on the weather beam, and the wild white hills of Cuchullin in full view in the far distance, and past Prince Charlie’s cave itself, and now they keep her in more towards the shore, for they are not far from the loch of Portree. Just past the cave they sail through a fleet of fishing boats. The men on board seem greatly excited. They have hauled in their oars, and stand by with great stones in their hands—part of the boat’s ballast—as if watching for a coming foe. But where is this foe? Why, look ahead, the whole sea for half a mile is darkened with an immense shoal of porpoises, driving straight towards the cutter and the boats, turning neither to right nor left, leaping from the water, splashing and dashing, and apparently wild with glee. Small respect have these “sea pigs,” as they are termed in the native language, for the poor fishermen’s nets; if the nets happen to come in their way, through they go, and there is an end of it. How the men shout and scream, to be sure! The bottle-noses take not the slightest heed of them; they are in their own element, so on they come and on they go, the wild shouts of the fishermen are nothing to them, and the stones thrown glide harmlessly off their greasy backs; but they are gone at last, gone like a whirlwind, and the boatmen are left lamenting over their bad luck and their broken nets.
Three hours after this the storm came on in earnest, but the little yacht lay snug at her moorings, and her owners were sipping their coffee after a good dinner in peace.
It was quite late that night before they retired. It mattered little in one way at what time they turned in, for there was small likelihood that the storm now raging across the island would abate before twelve hours at least. And what do you think they talked about? Why, the sea, the sea, and nothing but the sea, and wild adventures here and there in many lands. Again and again they plied McBain with questions about that strange country up in the frozen north, where it was said the mammoth caves lay. And McBain told them all he knew, and all he had ever heard concerning them. It was determined that northwards they should sail and nowhere else.
“What shall we call our coming queen?” said Rory. “What shall we name the yacht?”
“Oh! wait till we see her first,” said Allan.
“Ridiculous!” cried the impetuous Rory. “No, let us call her the Snowbird.”