“N-no,” said Jill, “not yet.”
“Let me catch him at it,” I said.
“What have ye got under the sail, sir?”
“Why, the dogs,” said Jill, laughing. “You didn’t think I was going to leave them, did you? Look here.” He lifted the corner of the sail as he spoke, and there, sure enough, were Ossian the noble Scottish deerhound, and Bruce the collie.
“Mind,” continued Jill, “both o’ these would have done a little fighting if the worst had come to the worst.”
The wind held steadily from the west and by north, and blew stiff after a time, but the boats sailed dry—neither were far distant from the other—and everything was as comfortable as could be expected under the sad circumstances.
“If there doesn’t come any more north in it than this,” said Ritchie, with a glance skyward, “it’ll do. But, you see, we ought to be heading up Famine Reach now.”
“What a name!” said Jill.
“Ay, and there is a sad and terrible story to it too, that some day I may perhaps tell you.”