"Welcome on board, Jamie Gair," said Master Wad the gunner, who was in charge of the deck, and was a short-legged personage, with a red visage, enormous black beard, and stunted figure, encased in a rough grey gaberdine; "what na wind hath blawn ye here betimes? Are ye tired o' your lubberly trade o' fisherman, and come to take service under the broad pennon o' the admiral? I marvel muckle ye have na tired lang syne o' sailing ilka morning to that weary fishing-ground, like the son o' a shotten herring. I would rather drink bilge-water a' my days, than turn fisherman again." "My best anchor--my bonnie Mary--is still at hame, Maister Wad," retorted Jamie; "but we a' ken how your Tib broke from her moorings and went adrift, naebody kens where." "Tut--I have ten Marys as gude as yours," replied the gunner, "forbye a Meinie and a Peg to boot." "I have nae time for daffin the noo, Maister Wad. Is the admiral on board?" "No--he is at the king's lodging, and has no come off yet; but what would ye wi' _him_?" "That which you maunna hear, Willie. Then, is the Captain Barton on board?" "No--he, Sir David Falconer, and a' body else (but the chaplain) are ashore at St. Margaret's." Gair stamped his foot, and scratched his beard impatiently. "Can ye no tell us what's in the wind, man?" asked the seamen, as they clustered about him, in surprise at his excitement. "Come," said Cuddie the coxswain, "what can _you_ have to tell the admiral that we canna hear? Out wi' it, hand owre hand, man." "It's something that will find ye a' work for a week to come, something that may knock the harns out o' half your heads," replied Gair, angrily. "I have seen foul weather in my time, brother," growled Archy of Anster, the boatswain; "and I have seen some gey het work, too, between the English Channel and the Rock o' Lisbon; but I marvel what the deil ye drive at, Gair!" "May I never drink aught but black bilge-water, if I dinna think him clean daft," added the gunner; "but he canna see the admiral till mid-day, when the kind's council breaks up; sae, Jamie, after Father Zuill hath piped all hands to mass, you had better just take your breakfast wi' us, like a douce man, and meet the admiral after, when tide and time suit." Aware that he could not entrust his secret with the seamen, among whom it would have spread like wildfire, and cost him, perhaps, his life--for a word from Sir James Shaw, or the tyrannical captain of Broughty, would be sufficient to hang a poor fisherman among the rooks that Borthwick spoke of--Jamie was obliged to exert his patience, and join the seamen at their mess of Lammas ale and porridge in the forecastle, where, after this humble repast was ever, Master Wad produced his fiddle, and, after mass was done and the chaplain gone ashore, sung the famous ditty, still known to our fishermen, of the