"Och, sollum and quiet lek," old Davy would say at the galley fire, "but none so simple at all. Aw no, no, no; and wonderful cur'ous about my own bit of an island yander."
The Icelander was Jason, son of Rachel and Stephen Orry.
There is not a more treacherous channel around the British Isles than that which lies between St. Bee's Head, the Mull of Galloway, and the Point of Ayre, for four strong currents meet and fight in that neck of the Irish Sea. With a stiff breeze on the port quarter, the Peveril had been driven due west from Whitehaven on the heavy current from the Solway Frith, until she had met the current from the North Channel and then she had tacked down towards the Isle of Man. It was dark by that time, and the skipper had leaned over the starboard gangway until he had sighted the light on the Point of Ayre. Even then he had been puzzled, for the light was feebler than he remembered it.
"Can you make it out, Davy?" he had said to old Kerruish.
"Aw, yes, though, and plain as plain," said Davy; and then the skipper had gone below.
The Manxman had been at the helm, and Jason, who was on the same watch, had sidled up to him at intervals and held a conversation with him in snatches, of which this is the sum and substance.
"Is it the Isle of Man on the starboard bow, Davy?"
"I darn' say no, boy."
"Lived there long, Davy?"
"Aw, thirty years afore you were born, maybe."