“How mindful of the captain?” said Allan.
“It was Ralph that sent the dinner,” said Stevenson, “and he sent with it his compliments to Rory.”
“Bless his old heart,” cried Rory. “I don’t think I’ll ever chaff him again about the gourmandising propensities of the Saxon race.”
“And the doctor,” continued the mate, “sent you some blankets, Mr Rory. There they are, sir; and he told me to give you this note, if I found you alive.”
The note was in the Scottish dialect, and ran as follows:—
“My conscience, Rory! some folks pay dear for their whustle. But keep up your heart, ma wee laddie. It’s a vera judeecious arrangement.”
In a few days more the Arrandoon had made good her repairs, and as the western wind had freshened, and was blowing what would have been a ten-knot breeze in the open sea, the steamer got up steam and the sailing-ship canvas, and together they took the loose ice, and made their way slowly to the eastward. The bergs, though some distance asunder, were still sufficiently near to considerably impede their way, and, for fear of accident, the Arrandoon took the cockle-shell, as she was always called now, in tow.
For many days the ships went steadily eastward, which proved to them how extensive the pack had been. Sometimes they came upon large tracts of open water, many miles in extent, and across this they sailed merrily and speedily enough, considering that neither of the vessels had as yet shipped her rudder. This they had determined not to do until they were well clear of the very heavy ice, or until the swell went down. So they were steered entirely by boats pulling ahead of them.
Open water at last, and the cockle-shell bids the big ships adieu, spreads her white sails to the breeze, and, swanlike, goes sailing away for the distant isle of Jan Mayen. Ay, and the big ships themselves must now very soon part company, the Scotia to bear up for the green shores of our native land, the Arrandoon for regions as yet unknown.