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It is not improbable that some of my readers may take a summer's trip to the Orkney Islands; let me ask them to wait at Thurso the old town of Thor for a handsome little steamer that leaves there three times a week for Kirkwall. It is the sole property of Captain Geordie Twatt, was a gift from an old friend in California, and is called "The Margaret Sinclair."
"And now, my lad," said Flett, blowing a hot potato that he held in his horny hand, "what brings ye all the way to Kirkwall on a cold day like this? Ye didna tell us that." "Well, captain," I said, looking down at my platter and wondering how I could eat its plentiful contents, hungry though I was, "I just sauntered along to see if I could get some work.
You have done nothing at all, my dear sir. We only want you to come to Kirkwall as a witness in the case of assault 'Kinlay versus Paterson' to be tried today at Kirkwall." "Oh! then, if that's all, I'm here," said Captain Miller, coming in from the pantry and adjusting his coat.
"I will not hinder thee," said Mrs. Brodie, "I'm no way troubled to take care of my own money, but it is just an aggravation to take care of other folks' siller. And who may thou be going to give a 'large sum of money' to, in Kirkwall town? I wouldn't wonder if the party isn't my own brother, Captain Conall Ragnor?" "No, Mistress," the young man replied.
I do not want the women of Kirkwall wondering who was to blame. I do not want them coming to see me with solemn looks and tearful voices. I could not endure their pitying of 'poor Miss Thora! They would not dare go to Coll with their sympathetic curiosity, but there are such women as Astar Gager, and Lala Snackoll, and Thyra Peterson, and Jorunna Flett.
Lerwick and Kirkwall, like Guam or the Bay of Islands, were but barbarous ports where whalers called to take up and to return experienced seamen. On the outlying islands the clergy lived isolated, thinking other thoughts, dwelling in a different country from their parishioners, like missionaries in the South Seas.
Twenty-one years after, on the 13th December 1137, Jarl Magnus' relics were brought to St. Magnus' Cathedral at Kirkwall.
"I'se do no promising for thee Geordie. Between wording an' working is a lang road, but Kirkwall an' Stromness kens thee for an honest lad, an' thou wilt mind this things promised are things due." Insensibly this act of forbearance lightened Peter's whole day; he was good-tempered with the world, and the world returned the compliment.
The note was from Bailie Duke, and it ran as follows: "Be in readiness. An officer from Kirkwall will be on board of you in a little with a summons. Yours, &c., H. Duke." I had hardly finished reading it when a noise as of someone boarding was heard on deck, and presently Captain Miller of the Albatross came rushing down the cabin stairs.
It was the home of one Mary Firth, a lone old woman who earned her living by knitting stockings and burning kelp. Opening the door, Thora entered the only room. There was no one within and the fire was dead out, for Mary Firth had gone away that morning to Kirkwall to sell her stock of knitting.
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