Days and days were spent exploring the coast southward, the party landing wherever there was an opportunity offered by a likely spot; but the most southern point of the mountain land was reached without a sign, and several walrus boats were spoken by way of obtaining news, but without result. Then, as the ice was densely packed, preventing any attempt being made to search the eastern shore, a course was laid for the great neighbouring island, the _Hvalross_ sailing steadily north-east a short distance from the pack. They had had a good evening's shooting the night before, and to the great delight of Andrew, Hamish, and the cook quite a load of fine ducks had been brought on board by the boat; but as Steve was going forward to take a favourite position of his by the bowsprit, he found that another member of the crew was not so highly pleased, for Watty was seated outside the galley door with a goose in his lap and a bucket by his side, busily plucking out the feathers and down, which, partly from the angry energy with which he was working, partly from the breeze, were flying in all directions, and especially all over his blue jersey and into his shock hair, which had been well anointed with the bear's grease he had carefully saved up from the day when the fat was boiled. When Steve approached Watty seemed to be singing as he plucked, for there was a mumbling, burring noise, and Steve turned to Andrew, who happened to be close at hand seated upon the deck, fastening a line to the edge of a sail. "Why, Andra," he said, "do you hear that?" "Oh ay, she hears it," replied the sailor. "Do you know what it puts me in mind of?" "Na, she dinna ken, Meester Stevey. A coo waiting for the lassie with the milk-pail, maype." "No," said Steve; "it's just like the drone of your pipes heard in the cuddy with the hatch on." "Fwhat? Na, na, she'll not pe a pit like tat. Ta pipes is music--coot music, Meester Stevey; for there's na music like ta pagpipes--ta gran' Hielan' pagpipes. But she kens she's chust cracking a choke with me." "No, I'm not. Listen; it does sound just like it." "Na, na, laddie," said Andrew after a pause to listen; "she's mair like ta collie tog when she sees a cat, or maype it's mair like ta bummel-bees among ta heather upo' ta hills in bonnie Scotland." "Well, it sounds very comic whatever it's like. Look here's Skeny coming up to see what's the matter; look how he's cocking his ears." "Oh ay, she thinks it's a coo wants driving hame." "No, he knows it's Watty. Look at him." "Ay, she can see ta tog. An' it's a fine tog, eh, Skene? Come alang, and I'll gie ye a pinch o' sneeshin'." "No, no, don't tease the dog!" cried Steve, as Andrew took out an old snuff-mull, opened it, and held it out to the dog. "Nay, she'll na tease the tyke. Skene hasna larnt to tak' ta sneeshing. But it's ferra coot for ta nose, Skeny."