"All right, lad!" interrupted my father. "Away with you to the sealing. You'll get many another chance of a sail. Who's going with you?"
"Robbie Rosson and Willie Hercus and--" I added with some hesitation, "Tom Kinlay," for I knew my father did not entirely approve of Tom as a companion.
"Kinlay again?" he muttered, knitting his brows. "I would advise you not to go with that lad so often. But then you dinna ken what his father is, I suppose."
It was seldom that I heard my father speak an ill word against any man. I did not ask him any question, but his brief warning was enough to show me that there was some serious cause of enmity between him and Tom's father, Carver Kinlay.
"Father," I said, "I'll not go with Tom if you object."
"Object!" said he. "What care I for the lad? It's the father that's my enemy. His bairns may be better than he. Away to the sealing with you, and may you get good sport!"
And he followed me to the door.
[Chapter V]. The Hen Harrier.
I lingered about the little quay while my father and the crew were hoisting sail. For a moment I questioned if I should not be happier in the bow of the Curlew, than tramping half a score of miles over rough uninteresting moorland on the chance of capturing a seal; but in the end I was satisfied in keeping to the plan arranged by my companions. I waited only to see the boat bend over in the fresh breeze as she sailed outward to the ships; then, armed with my harpoon and a knobbed stick, I hastened out of Stromness, followed by my dog.
Selta (so called after one of our native streams) was a long-bodied, long-haired animal, with a touch of the otter hound in her nature. I got her from Colin Lothian, an old "gaberlunzie" man who travelled our countryside. He gave me the dog when she was a young thing, and he had another of the same litter which followed him wherever he went about the island.