"Ay, let's give it to the dominie," chimed in Robbie Rosson, always ready to agree with whatever I proposed.
"The dominie! What for would you give it to the dominie?" objected Kinlay. "It's my bird. I first saw it."
"Your bird! your bird, indeed!" exclaimed Hercus, putting his hands in his pockets and assuming an attitude of indignant surprise. "Is it the man who first sees the whale that has the blubber? No, no, Ericson's dog caught the bird. Let Hal do as he likes with his own."
I have no doubt that Tom coveted the dead falcon in order to persuade his sister that he had discovered her harrier's nest. When we agreed to keep the bird for the schoolmaster, he accordingly grew gloomy, and the rest of the journey to Skaill was accomplished without his joining in the merry talk, of which there was no lack, you may be sure.
[Chapter VI]. "Better Gear Than Rats."
Skaill Vic is a large, sheltered inlet of the sea. I have heard that in ancient times it was a meeting place of the Norse vikings, and it is just such a place as a pirate might choose to make his headquarters, being a convenient station from which he could ravage the adjacent shores of Scotland, or sail over to Norway, or even north to Iceland, and safely return to its secluded shelter, to store his treasure in the dark caverns of the rugged cliffs. I may here remind you that Pomona Island was, long ago, the holy land of the Northman, and that the cairns and cromlechs scattered over our hills and plains are to this day associated with the visits of the old viking buccaneers. Andrew Drever, who was exceedingly well versed in the antique lore of the Orkneys, once told us in school of a Runic inscription he had seen in the Maes Howe at Stenness. It was interpreted to the effect that one of the old vikings "had found much fee in Orkhow," and that this treasure had been buried "to the northwest."
"Happy is he," the legend continued--"Happy is he who may discover this great wealth."
But, of course, no person had ever found trace of it, and Mr. Drever supposed that it must have been swept away by the furious storms that, in wintertime, dash continually against the rocky ribs of the Orcadian coasts.
We got down by a pathway to the sloping beach, which the tide had left bare. At the point where we hoped to find some seals, we observed several men and women gathering seaweed, preparatory to burning it for kelp. This was a disappointment to us, since, if there were any seals about, it was likely they would be scared away by the kelp burners. But we walked along under the high banks as far as the northern extremity of the bay, in expectation of finding some sport on the outer shores.
We sat for a long while talking, as schoolboys will talk, in a sheltered cleft of the headland, which, I believe, had once been a cavern, and was known by the name of the Kierfiold Helyer. Here the force of many an Atlantic storm had so worn away the face of the rocks that the cliff was driven back to the innermost parts of the original cave. Great pieces of granite lay about in disorder, showing where the roof of the cavern had fallen in; and on one of these boulders we sat until we were weary, looking out to the water's edge, in expectation of seeing some seals appear.