CHAPTER VIII 



I HAVE just come over the island and on board ship after 

 a week-end trip to the north of this main island to my 

 friend R. C. Haldane, of the distinguished family of 

 that name, associated in historians' minds with Halfdan 

 the Viking leader, and to newspaper readers with a younger 

 brother late War Minister and present Lord Chancellor. 

 I came over the island in a single-cylinder motor-car, a 

 splendid new departure for these parts, over the windy, wet 

 moorland track, four hours to do forty miles, but what 

 glorious speed compared with only the other day, when we 

 stiffened for long hours doing the same journey in a slow 

 dog-cart. 



The old whaler, Magnus Andersen, took me off to St Ebba 

 in the wind and dark and splashing sea in a leaky cobble. 



How jolly and cheery it is to be back in the cosy, lamplit 

 cabin. The first mate is busy at his log, trying to write in 

 English, and soon there is the bump of a boat alongside, and 

 down the companion-way comes our burly youth of a captain, 

 and what a hearty handshake he gives, as if we had been 

 away for weeks, or months, instead of only a week-end : and 

 we compare notes. His day has been full to overflowing. 



He had prepared the fatted calf tinned meat and fish balls 

 and beer, and whisky and soda, against the Board of Trade 

 inspector's visit for measurement and registration ; and 

 then he turned out to be a teetotaller and vegetarian ! We 

 had telegraphed to Aberdeen for this poor man and he had 

 torn himself from the bosom of his family, faced two days' 

 gale and arrived white as paper and rather on edge. But 

 he was profoundly clever, all admitted that, and he was im- 

 pressed with Henriksen's books in the cabin, three big shelves, 

 all of them scientific sea-books, and directories. And he said : 

 " Where are the novels ? " And there were none ! At least 

 there were none visible. I have two or three about heroes 



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