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Updated: June 23, 2025
This explanation appeared to me very reasonable, and with the suggestion in my mind I determined, should I ever have another opportunity, to put it in practice. Such an opportunity presented itself sooner than I could have expected. Colin Lothian remained at Lyndardy until the following Monday morning.
My father had been thrifty, and had saved some little money; but when we came to calculate the full measure of our resources, we discovered that several alterations would have to be made in our mode of living. Not the least important of these changes was the necessity of an early removal to Lyndardy.
"And where did Ericson go to after he left you?" questioned Mr. Thomson. "I dinna ken, Mr. Thomson. He said he was to gang back to Lyndardy. But ye'd better ask himsel', had ye not?" And Paterson looked round to where I sat. Mr. Thomson seemed to have no further questions to ask, and Bailie Duke said: "Very well, Jack, that will do now. You may both go."
I was downcast at this question, for it was this same old man before me this Colin Lothian, the wandering beggar who had given Selta to me, and the dog that was with him was Selta's brother. "Colin," I asked, when I had told him of my dog's death, "why is it you come to this poor place for shelter when every house in the Mainland is open to you? Why do you not go to my uncle's at Lyndardy?"
"Oh, never mind the fire, Colin!" I said. "Just come along wi' me to my uncle's farm at Lyndardy. Ye'll get good shelter and food there. That's far better than staying in this ruined place." So the old man got up on his feet, and we walked together to the farm.
The fishing, and a previous knowledge of the Orkney channels, had given him some experience of local navigation; and it was upon the strength of this experience that, having built his pilot boat, he intended to start in opposition to my father. The greater part of what Mansie and Colin said, as they sat in the comfortable kitchen of Lyndardy, was entirely new to me.
That evening when I tramped over the moor to Lyndardy the snow fell heavily a driving, drifting snow that penetrated into every cranny it had access to, and collected in deep wreaths on meadow and moor.
I saw the schooner safely moored in the bay, with her cabin door locked and her hatchway closed, and then went up home to Lyndardy. My mother and Jessie had already heard that the Falcon had come into the harbour; they gave me a very warm welcome from this my first voyage, and listened with interest and surprise to the things I had to tell them.
The storm abated somewhat as the rocky shores of Pomona hove in sight, and soon the familiar bay of Skaill and the cliffs of my native parish seaboard showed me that the voyage was approaching a welcome end. It was evening when the schooner passed abreast of the rocks of Yeskenaby, and now I watched eagerly for the light in the windows of Lyndardy farm.
On the Sunday evening at Lyndardy, while the storm still beat upon the land, Colin sat with us round the fireside and smoked with my uncle Mansie. The talk drifted round to the subject of Carver Kinlay, whose new boat was to be brought from Kirkwall that week. My uncle did not know for what purpose that new boat was built. Kinlay was a man who had no settled occupation outside his farm.
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