d the whisky with more whisky, for the tears started to my eyes
as I drank my first drink. But I felt fine and warm inside for all
that. Captain McGilp, as tough a looking seaman as ever shook out a
reef, hoisted himself beside Dan. He had not mind of me, I think.

"We did yon business o' Scaurdale's," he whispered, "and got the len'
of a cow to keep the wean in milk, and I'll no' say but I forget where
the beast came frae, for it's in the barrel now, what's left o't. The
wean's in France in a convent among the nuns, where I'm envying her her
innocence," and the captain became so wild and heedless in his speech
that I drew away. "Ho, my cockerel," says he, "Miss Mim-mou
(mim-mouth), that's the bonniest wie I ken o' gettin' yir wesan cut,"
and to Dan, "There's a lot o' the stallion to that colt." This would
mean that I resembled my father, the minister now dead, for he survived
my mother, the Laird's sister, by but a few years.

"Let the lad be, Jock McGilp, or you and me'll be cuttin' wesands,"
says Dan, and I could have flown at the burly smuggler's throat for the
joy of Dan's backing.

"It'll be his first night, hey? Well, look at McNeilage there; he's
been drunk fifteen flaming years."

"A bonny mate that--fifteen flaming years."

The mate slowly lifted his head, which had sunk on his massive chest,
and as I saw his face I grew amazed, for he resembled nothing so much
as a good-living, well-fed minister.

"I ha' used the sea, Cap'n, in my time. I loved the nuns and the
virgins in San Iago afore we made a bonfire o' it, ay the holy nuns,
but they skirled. Here's tae them, they were good while they lasted,"
and the unholy wretch smacked his lips as though he relished the memory
more than the drink.

"Sanny McNeilage, they ca' me. I've seen what I've seen and what ye'll
never see--I've seen the decks red for a week and all hands drunk;" and
then he turned to me, and his face shone with kindliness, "Are ye any
man wi' a cutlass, my lad?"

"No," says I, for my blood boiled at the thought of the nuns, "I wish I
were."

"So do I," says he in a pitiful voice.

"All that was before your mother died," says a young lad at his elbow,
fierce Ronny McKinnon, and the mate put his head in his arms and his
shoulders shook with his greetin', while nods and winks went round the
godless crew.

"She was English, my poor old mother," he cried, "and I would lay down
my damned soul for her, but she died fifteen year