“Well, Fowd,” continued Halcro, “I undertook to carry him to Fitful-head in my little boat, which Giles and I can manage as if it were an Admiral’s barge full manned; and Master Triptolemus Yellowley will tell you how seaman-like I piloted him to the little haven, within a quarter of a mile of Norna’s dwelling.”
“I wish to Heaven you had brought me as safe back again,” said the Factor.
“Why, to be sure,” replied the minstrel, “I am, as glorious John says,—
‘A daring pilot in extremity,
Pleased with the danger when the waves go high,
I seek the storm—but, for a calm unfit,
Will steer too near the sands, to show my wit.’”
“I showed little wit in intrusting myself to your charge,” said Triptolemus; “and you still less when you upset the boat at the throat of the voe, as you call it, when even the poor bairn, that was mair than half drowned, told you that you were carrying too much sail; and then ye wad fasten the rape to the bit stick on the boat-side, that ye might have time to play on the fiddle.”
“What!” said the Udaller, “make fast the sheets to the thwart? a most unseasonable practice, Claud Halcro.”
“And sae came of it,” replied the agriculturist; “for the neist blast (and we are never lang without ane in these parts) whomled us as a gudewife would whomle a bowie, and ne’er a thing wad Maister Halcro save but his fiddle. The puir bairn swam out like a water-spaniel, and I swattered hard for my life, wi’ the help of ane of the oars; and here we are, comfortless creatures, that, till a good wind blew you here, had naething to eat but a mouthful of Norway rusk, that has mair sawdust than rye-meal in it, and tastes liker turpentine than any thing else.”
“I thought we heard you very merry,” said Brenda, “as we came along the beach.”
“Ye heard a fiddle, Mistress Brenda,” said the Factor; “and maybe ye may think there can be nae dearth, miss, where that is skirling. But then it was Maister Claud Halcro’s fiddle, whilk, I am apt to think, wad skirl at his father’s deathbed, or at his ain, sae lang as his fingers could pinch the thairm. And it was nae sma’ aggravation to my misfortune to have him bumming a’ sorts of springs,—Norse and Scots, Highland and Lawland, English and Italian, in my lug, as if nothing had happened that was amiss, and we all in such stress and perplexity.”
“Why, I told you sorrow would never right the boat, Factor,” said the thoughtless minstrel, “and I did my best to make you merry; if I failed, it was neither my fault nor my fiddle’s. I have drawn the bow across it before glorious John Dryden himself.”