humb over his shoulder to where the
Government cutters lay anchored outside, and said in a touching
voice, "Aw, well, boy, I'm thinking Castle Rushen isn't no place for
a poor man when he's gettin' anyways ould."

The Icelander was a brawny young fellow of about twenty, of great
height and big muscles, and with long red hair. He had shipped at
Reykjavik, in the room of an Irishman, who had died on the outward
trip and been buried at sea off the Engy Island. He was not a
favorite among the crew; he spoke English well, but was no good at a
yarn in the forecastle; he was silent, gloomy, not too fond of work,
and often the butt of his mates in many a lumbering jest that he did
not seem to see. He had signed on the wharf on the morning the
schooner sailed, and the only kit he had brought aboard was a rush
cage with a canary. He hung the bird in the darkness above his bunk,
and it was all but his sole companion. Now and again he spoke to old
Kerruish, but hardly ever to the other men.

"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."

"Ever known any of my countrymen on the isla