“On the weather quarter, sir; I can just raise her topmasts; she is holding the same course as ourselves.”
Shortly after, Mr Stevenson, who had gone aloft, came below to report.
“She is no whaler, sir, whatever she is,” he said.
“But what else can she be?” said Captain McBain. “She might have been blown out of her course, to be sure, but with this wind she could make up her leeway. Keep our yacht a bit nearer the wind, Mr Stevenson, we’ll give her a chance of showing her bunting anyhow.”
Dinner-hour in the saloon was one o’clock, and it was barely over when Mr Stevenson entered, and with him a being that made our heroes start and stare in astonishment. What or who was he? They had never seen him before, and knew not he was on board—a very little, thin, wiry, weazened old man, all grey hairs, parchment skin, and wrinkles. Was he the little old man of the sea?
McBain saw their bewilderment and hastened to explain.
“My worthy friend Magnus Green,” he said, “the passenger I took on board at Lerwick.”
“There is precious little green about him,” thought Rory.
“The ship is not far off, she is flying a flag of distress, but Magnus says he knows her, and bids us keep clear of her.”
“Well, Magnus, what do you know about her?” asked McBain.