I had not yet forgiven Tom for what he had done a few days earlier
than this spring morning. It happened this way:
Four of us had a boat out on the bay, and we sailed about from
point to point, fancying ourselves sailors voyaging on foreign
seas. Our dinghy, we imagined, was a sailing vessel, and the broad
bay of Stromness represented the Atlantic Ocean. The Outer Holm we
called "America," Graemsay Island was "Africa," and the Ness Point
was "Spain," while a small rock that stood far out in the bay was
"St. Helena." Tom Kinlay was, by his own appointment, our skipper;
Robbie Rosson and Willie Hercus were classed able seamen; and my
dog, Selta, and I were called upon to do duty for both passengers
and cargo, curiously enough, sailing with the ship on every voyage.
We had touched at each of these places in turn, and when we were
homeward bound I was landed at an imaginary port in "Spain." The
boat had pushed off, when I called out to the skipper that I would
walk home to Stromness if he would take the ship into port.
I had returned home and was seated at dinner, when I thought of the
dog and looked about for her. But she had not come back; so I went
down to the jetty at the end of the Anchor Close, to see if I could
discover the boat or any of the lads. Standing there I heard the
dog's bark across the water, and what was my consternation to see
my pet stranded like a castaway on "St.
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