“I fear naething, sir,” replied McPherson, gravely.
“I mean, what danger threatens us?”
“None that I ken o’; but we’re makin’ the land, an’ it behooves us to ca’ canny.”
It may be well to remark here that the skipper, having voyaged much on all parts of the Scottish coast, had adopted and mixed up with his own peculiar English several phrases and words in use among the lowland Scots.
Next morning, when Mabberly again visited the deck, he found the skipper standing on the same spot where he had left him, apparently in the same attitude, and with the same grave, sleepless expression on his cast-iron features. The boy, Robin Tips, was at the helm, looking very sleepy. He was an English boy, smart, active, and wide-awake—in the slang sense—in which sense also we may add that he was “cheeky.”
But neither the skipper nor Tips was very visible at the distance of three yards, owing to a dense fog which prevailed. It was one of those white, luminous, dry fogs which are not at all depressing to the spirits, though obstructive to the eyes, and which are generally, if not always, accompanied by profound calm.
“Has it been like this long?” asked Mabberly, after the first salutations.
“Ay, sir, a coot while.”
“And have we made no progress during the night?”
“Oo, ay, a coot bit. We should nae be far off some o’ the islands noo, but it’s hard to say, wi’ naither sun, moon, nor stars veesible to let us fin’ oot where we are.”