less!
and one's a man!"

"Why, one is Gloy!" cried Gibbie; and--in more subdued tones--Lowrie
added "And the man is Mr. Garson, the young Laird o' Lunda!"

"_That's_ jolly!" Yaspard said; "but how Gloy got there beats me to
imagine," and he cast a reproachful glance at Pirate, who was looking
up into his master's face with such an expression of fidelity in his
honest brown eyes that the boy could not resist their appeal. He took
the dog's head between his hands and said, "No, Pirate, I will not
think _you_ broke faith with me."

"The mystery will soon be cleared up now," remarked Lowrie, as he
lowered the sail and directed his brother to row gently, so that they
might bring up alongside of the _Laulie_.

By the time their boat was moored to the crags, the Lunda boys and
their chief were standing there, all grinning from ear to ear. As for
Gloy, he was all "one huge laugh," Yaspard said, with some exasperation
in his tone.

"I suppose I mustn't shake hands with you, Mr. Garson," the Viking
said, addressing himself to Fred as he jumped on shore; but Fred
laughed and caught both of Yaspard's hands in his as he replied,
"Nonsense, man! You ought to know that _honourable_ enemies do not
scruple to shake hands even on the eve of battle. I was exceedingly
pleased with your letter, and very glad to make your acquaintance under
_any_ circumstances."

"Even Uncle Brues could not hold out against a fellow like you!" Yaspard
exclaimed, as he returned that hearty hand-clasp, and looked into the
winsome, manly face, so much endowed with the magnetic power that drew
all hearts to Fred Garson.

They all laughed at Yaspard's words, but they all knew how potent was
Fred's spell, and did not wonder at the boy's enthusiasm.

"I suppose," said Fred then, "that before I answer your letter we
should explain about your captive, taken in fair war, and here ready to
yield himself back into your hands if you are not satisfied with his
explanation and the ransom we bring."

"It's here--just as you stipulated," Bill Mitchell exclaimed, rattling
a little tin pail he carried; "pebbles wet with the waves of Westervoe.
See!" and he jerked off the lid and showed some stones in a pail full
of salt water.

"If I were Gloy," burst forth the blunt and tactless Tom Holtum, "I'd
be ashamed of being valued at such a trumpery price. If you had priced
him against a bit of lichen torn from the Head of Calloster, which
might have cost us our liv