Containing a Strange, Strange Story, Told by the Snuggery Fire.
“It never rains but it pours,” said McBain, entering the saloon rubbing his hands, and smiling as he seated himself at the breakfast-table. “Steward, I hope it is beefsteak this morning, with boiled eggs to follow, for I declare to you honestly I don’t think I ever felt half so hungry in my born days before! Bravo, steward! bravo, Peter! Be thankful, boys, for all His mercies, and fall to!”
“One would think, captain,” said Ralph, “that you had got good news this morning.”
“Why, it makes one laugh just to look at you,” said Rory.
“Laugh away, lad?” said McBain; “laugh and grow fat, but eat as well, boys! And why haven’t you been on deck, eh?”
“Overslept ourselves,” observed Allan; “Well, no wonder! You’re young, and the excitement of the past few days has been great: even I have felt it. But to-day, my boys, there isn’t a pirate in sight; the wind has gone back to the south-east, and in five more days, if it holds we’ll be on shore shooting the denizens of the scented pine forests of the farthest north lands of America.”
Our heroes were soon on deck, the Snowbird was bounding along before a beautiful breeze, with all her fair-weather sails set and nicely trimmed. Every one on board seemed joyful; the laugh and the joke were heard from the second officer’s cabin, and the men in the forecastle were trolling a song.
That same evening a very happy group were assembled around a bright fire in the cosy snuggery. They were our heroes three, squatted or reclining on mats before the stove, not sitting on chairs—certainly not, they knew a trick worth two of that. The captain occupied a rocking-chair, as became his dignity; Oscar the Saint Bernard’s nose was turned stovewards; and Rory was making a pillow of him. Oscar was eyeing the cheerful blaze, but every other eye was directed upon wee weazen-faced Magnus Green, the mysterious little stranger that McBain had picked up in Lerwick, and who had done them such noble service in crippling the pirate. He was seated on a camp-stool in the corner.
“Now, Magnus!” cried McBain, “we’re all waiting for your yarn.”
“Jan Jansen, then,” said Magnus, after a moment’s pause or two—“Jan Jansen, gentlemen, was first mate of a merchant brig, as neat and tight a little craft as ever sailed the seas. He had been in her, man and boy, for nearly twenty years—in the same ship and with the same captain. This captain was a Dane, but he hailed and he sailed from a little town in Shetland. And dearly did this sailor captain love his profession; he was never really at home except when afloat on the billowy ocean, when he was as happy as the sea-birds.