She was named the Falcon. I was looking down at the
green copper plating near her cutwater, when I heard a gruff but
cheery voice calling out:
"Hullo! there, young Ericson! Are ye not coming aboard, lad?"
"Hello, Davie!" I responded, jumping down upon the deck. "Here's a
cold day for ye, eh?"
He was a little, thick-set man, with a rippled, weatherbeaten face.
He wore a dirty, red, knitted cap, from which escaped a few curls
of iron-gray hair. A short pea jacket was closely buttoned over his
chest, and a pair of immense sea boots reached high above his
knees.
This was David Flett, the same jovial old mariner who, it will be
remembered, warned me against the Jew on Stromness quay. He removed
a short black pipe from his lips as I joined him near the
companionway.
"Have ye walked from Stromness the day?" he asked. "Ay, lad, but
ye'll be tired, I doubt. Come away below to the fire and warm
yersel'."
And he led the way down the ladder and into a close little cabin,
where a rousing wood fire was burning under a good pot of potatoes.
Captain Flett had spent most of his early days at the Greenland
whale fishing, but he had now settled down upon his own quarterdeck
to make a comfortable living for himself by helping others;
providing for the Orkney islanders, what they much needed, a market
of exchange for their native commodities.
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