The Scene Changes—Ruby is Vulcanised. (continued 2)

The major handed Ruby a small green pocket-book as he spoke, in which the latter wrote the full name and address of his late skipper.

“Now, nephy,” said the captain, “we must, I’m sorry to say, bid ye good day, and ask you to return to your work, for it won’t do to rouse suspicion, lad. Only keep quiet here, and do yer dooty—‘England expects every man to do his dooty’—and as sure as your name’s Ruby all will be shipshape in a few weeks.”

“I thank you sincerely,” said Ruby, addressing the major, but looking at Minnie.

Captain Ogilvy, observing this, and fearing some display of feeling that would be recognised by the workmen, who were becoming surprised at the length of the interview, placed himself between Minnie and her lover.

“No, no, Ruby,” said he, solemnly. “I’m sorry for ye, lad, but it won’t do. Patience is a virtue, which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune.”

“My mother?” said Ruby, wishing to prolong the interview.

“Is well,” said the captain. “Now, goodbye, lad, and be off.”

“Goodbye, Minnie,” cried Ruby, stepping forward suddenly and seizing the girl’s hand; then, wheeling quickly round, he sprang over the rocks, and returned to his post.

“Ha! it’s time,” cried the smith. “I thought you would never be done makin’ love to that there girl. Come, blaze away!”

Ruby felt so nettled by the necessity that was laid upon him of taking no notice of Minnie, that he seized the handle of the bellows passionately, and at the first puff blew nearly all the fire away.

“Hallo! messmate,” cried the smith, clearing the dust from his eyes; “what on airth ails ye? You’ve blowed the whole consarn out!”

Ruby made no reply, but, scraping together the embers, heaped them up and blew more gently.

In a short time the visitors re-entered their boat, and rowed out of the creek in which it had been lying.

Ruby became so exasperated at not being able even to watch the boat going away, that he showered terrific blows on the mass of metal the smith was turning rapidly on the anvil.

“Not so fast, lad; not so fast,” cried Dove hurriedly.

Ruby’s chafing spirit blew up just at that point; he hit the iron a crack that knocked it as flat as a pancake, and then threw down the hammer and deliberately gazed in the direction of the boat.

The sight that met his eyes appalled him. The boat had been lying in the inlet named Port Stevenson. It had to pass out to the open sea through Wilson’s Track, and past a small outlying rock named Gray’s Rock—known more familiarly among the men as Johnny Gray. The boat was nearing this point, when the sea, which had been rising for some time, burst completely over the seaward ledges, and swept the boat high against the rocks on the left. The men had scarcely got her again into the track when another tremendous billow, such as we have already described, swept over the rocks again and swamped the boat, which, being heavily ballasted, sank at once to the bottom of the pool.

It was this sight that met the horrified eyes of Ruby when he looked up.

He vaulted over the bellows like an antelope, and, rushing over Smith’s Ledge and Trinity Ledge, sprang across Port Boyle, and dived head foremost into Neill’s Pool before any of the other men, who made a general rush, could reach the spot.

A few powerful strokes brought Ruby to the place where the major and the captain, neither of whom could swim, were struggling in the water. He dived at once below these unfortunates, and almost in a second, reappeared with Minnie in his arms.

A few seconds sufficed to bring him to Smith’s Ledge, where several of his comrades hauled him and his burden beyond the reach of the next wave, and where, a moment or two later, the major and captain with the crew of the boat were landed in safety.

To bear the light form of Minnie in his strong arms to the highest and driest part of the rock were the work of a few moments to Ruby. Brief though those moments were, however, they were precious to the youth beyond all human powers of calculation, for Minnie recovered partial consciousness, and fancying, doubtless, that she was still in danger, flung her arms round his neck, and grasped him convulsively. Reader, we tell you in confidence that if Ruby had at that moment been laid on the rack and torn limb from limb, he would have cheered out his life triumphantly. It was not only that he knew she loved him—that he knew before,—but he had saved the life of the girl he loved, and a higher terrestrial happiness can scarcely be attained by man.

Laying her down as gently as a mother would her first-born, Ruby placed a coat under her head, and bade his comrades stand back and give her air. It was fortunate for him that one of the foremen, who understood what to do, came up at this moment, and ordered him to leave off chafing the girl’s hand with his wet fists, and go get some water boiled at the forge if he wanted to do her good.

Second words were not needed. The bellows were soon blowing, and the fire glowed in a way that it had not done since the works at the Bell Rock began. Before the water quite boiled some tea was put in, and, with a degree of speed that would have roused the jealousy of any living waiter, a cup of tea was presented to Minnie, who had recovered almost at the moment Ruby left her.

She drank a little, and then closing her eyes, moved her lips silently for a few seconds.

Captain Ogilvy, who had attended her with the utmost assiduity and tenderness as soon as he had wrung the water out of his own garments, here took an opportunity of hastily pouring something into the cup out of a small flask. When Minnie looked up again and smiled, he presented her with the cup. She thanked him, and drank a mouthful or two before perceiving that it had been tampered with.

“There’s something in it,” she said hurriedly.

“So there is, my pet,” said the captain, with a benignant smile, “a little nectar, that will do you more good than all the tea. Come now, don’t shake your head, but down with it all, like a good child.”

But Minnie was proof against persuasion, and refused to taste any more.

“Who was it that saved me, uncle?” (She had got into the way of calling the captain “uncle.”)

“Ruby Brand did it, my darlin’,” said the old man with a look of pride. “Ah! you’re better now; stay, don’t attempt to rise.”

“Yes, yes, uncle,” she said, getting up and looking round, “it is time that we should go now; we have a long way to go, you know. Where is the boat?”

“The boat, my precious, is at the bottom of the sea.”

As he said this, he pointed to the mast, half of which was seen rising out of the pool where the boat had gone down.

“But you don’t need to mind,” continued the captain, “for they’re goin’ to send us in one o’ their own boats aboord the floatin’ lightship, where we’ll get a change o’ clothes an’ somethin’ to eat.”

As he spoke, one of the sailors came forward and announced that the boat was ready, so the captain and the major assisted Minnie into the boat, which soon pushed off with part of the workmen from the rock. It was to be sent back for the remainder of the crew, by which time the tide would render it necessary that all should leave.

Ruby purposely kept away from the group while they were embarking, and after they were gone proceeded to resume work.

“You took a smart dive that time, lad,” observed Joe Dumsby as they went along.

“Not more than anyone would do for a girl,” said Ruby.

“An’ such a purty wan, too,” said O’Connor. “Ah! av she’s not Irish, she should ha’ bin.”

“Ye’re a lucky chap to hae sic a chance,” observed John Watt.

“Make up to her, lad,” said Forsyth; “I think she couldn’t refuse ye after doin’ her such service.”

“Time enough to chaff after work is over,” cried Ruby with a laugh, as he turned up his sleeves, and, seizing the hammer, began, as his friend Dove said, “to work himself dry.”

In a few minutes, work was resumed, and for another hour all continued busy as bees, cutting and pounding at the flinty surface of the Bell Rock.

Chapter Thirteen.

A Sleepless but a Pleasant Night.

The evening which followed the day that has just been described was bright, calm, and beautiful, with the starry host unclouded and distinctly visible to the profoundest depths of space.

As it was intended to send the Smeaton to Arbroath next morning for a cargo of stones from the building-yard, the wrecked party were prevailed on to remain all night on board the Pharos, instead of going ashore in one of the ship’s boats, which could not well be spared at the time.

This arrangement, we need hardly say, gave inexpressible pleasure to Ruby, and was not altogether distasteful to Minnie, although she felt anxious about Mrs Brand, who would naturally be much alarmed at the prolonged absence of herself and the captain. However, “there was no help for it”; and it was wonderful the resignation which she displayed in the circumstances.

It was not Ruby’s duty to watch on deck that night, yet, strange to say, Ruby kept watch the whole night long!

There was no occasion whatever for Minnie to go on deck after it was dark, yet, strange to say, Minnie kept coming on deck at intervals nearly the whole night long! Sometimes to “look at the stars”, sometimes to “get a mouthful of fresh air”, frequently to find out what “that strange noise could be that had alarmed her”, and at last—especially towards the early hours of morning—for no reason whatever, except that “she could not sleep below.”

It was very natural that when Minnie paced the quarterdeck between the stern and the mainmast, and Ruby paced the forepart of the deck between the bows and the mainmast, the two should occasionally meet at the mainmast. It was also very natural that when they did meet, the girl who had been rescued should stop and address a few words of gratitude to the man who had saved her. But it was by no means natural—nay, it was altogether unnatural and unaccountable, that, when it became dark, the said man and the said girl should get into a close and confidential conversation, which lasted for hours, to the amusement of Captain Ogilvy and the major, who quite understood it, and to the amazement of many of the ship’s crew, who couldn’t understand it at all.

At last Minnie bade Ruby a final good night and went below, and Ruby, who could not persuade himself that it was final, continued to walk the deck until his eyes began to shut and open involuntarily like those of a sick owl. Then he also went below, and, before he fell quite asleep (according to his own impression), was awakened by the bell that called the men to land on the rock and commence work.

It was not only Ruby who found it difficult to rouse himself that morning. The landing-bell was rung at four o’clock, as the tide suited at that early hour, but the men were so fatigued that they would gladly have slept some hours longer. This, however, the nature of the service would not admit of. The building of the Bell Rock Lighthouse was a peculiar service. It may be said to have resembled duty in the trenches in military warfare. At times the work was light enough, but for the most part it was severe and irregular, as the men had to work in all kinds of weather, as long as possible, in the face of unusual difficulties and dangers, and were liable to be called out at all unseasonable hours. But they knew and expected this, and faced the work like men.

After a growl or two, and a few heavy sighs, they all tumbled out of their berths, and, in a very short time, were mustered on deck, where a glass of rum and a biscuit were served to each, being the regular allowance when they had to begin work before breakfast. Then they got into the boats and rowed away.

Ruby’s troubles were peculiar on this occasion. He could not bear the thought of leaving the Pharos without saying goodbye to Minnie; but as Minnie knew nothing of such early rising, there was no reasonable hope that she would be awake. Then he wished to put a few questions to his uncle which he had forgotten the day before, but his uncle was at that moment buried in profound repose, with his mouth wide open, and a trombone solo proceeding from his nose, which sadly troubled the unfortunates who lay near him.

As there was no way of escape from these difficulties, Ruby, like a wise man, made up his mind to cast them aside, so, after swallowing his allowance, he shouldered his big bellows, heaved a deep sigh, and took his place in one of the boats alongside.

The lassitude which strong men feel when obliged to rise before they have had enough of rest soon wears off. The two boats had not left the Pharos twenty yards astern, when Joe Dumsby cried, “Ho! boys, let’s have a race.”

“Hooray!” shouted O’Connor, whose elastic spirits were always equal to anything, “an’ sure Ruby will sing us ‘The girl we’ve left behind us.’ Och! an’ there she is, av I’m not draymin’.”

At that moment a little hand was waved from one of the ports of the floating light. Ruby at once waved his in reply, but as the attention of the men had been directed to the vessel by Ned’s remark, each saw the salutation, and, claiming it as a compliment to himself, uttered a loud cheer, which terminated in a burst of laughter, caused by the sight of Ruby’s half-angry, half-ashamed expression of face.

As the other boat had shot ahead, however, at the first mention of the word “race”, the men forgot this incident in their anxiety to overtake their comrades. In a few seconds both boats were going at full speed, and they kept it up all the way to the rock.

While this was going on, the Smeaton’s boat was getting ready to take the strangers on board the sloop, and just as the workmen landed on the rock, the Smeaton cast loose her sails, and proceeded to Arbroath.

There were a few seals basking on the Bell Rock this morning when the men landed. These at once made off, and were not again seen during the day.

At first, seals were numerous on the rock. Frequently from fifty to sixty of them were counted at one time, and they seemed for a good while unwilling to forsake their old quarters, but when the forge was set up they could stand it no longer. Some of the boldest ventured to sun themselves there occasionally, but when the clatter of the anvil and the wreaths of smoke became matters of daily occurrence, they forsook the rock finally, and sought the peace and quiet which man denied them there in other regions of the deep.

The building of the lighthouse was attended with difficulties at every step. As a short notice of some of these, and an account of the mode in which the great work was carried on, cannot fail to be interesting to all who admire those engineering works which exhibit prominently the triumph of mind over matter, we shall turn aside for a brief space to consider this subject.

Chapter Fourteen.

Somewhat Statistical.

It has been already said that the Bell Rock rises only a few feet out of the sea at low tide. The foundation of the tower, sunk into the solid rock, was just three feet three inches above low water of the lowest spring-tides, so that the lighthouse may be said with propriety to be founded beneath the waves.

One great point that had to be determined at the commencement of the operations was the best method of landing the stones of the building, this being a delicate and difficult process, in consequence of the weight of the stones and their brittle nature, especially in those parts which were worked to a delicate edge or formed into angular points. As the loss of a single stone, too, would stop the progress of the work until another should be prepared at the workyard in Arbroath and sent off to the rock, it may easily be imagined that this matter of the landing was of the utmost importance, and that much consultation was held in regard to it.

It would seem that engineers, as well as doctors, are apt to differ. Some suggested that each particular stone should be floated to the rock, with a cork buoy attached to it; while others proposed an air-tank, instead of the cork buoy. Others, again, proposed to sail over the rock at high water in a flat-bottomed vessel, and drop the stones one after another when over the spot they were intended to occupy. A few, still more eccentric and daring in their views, suggested that a huge cofferdam or vessel should be built on shore, and as much of the lighthouse built in this as would suffice to raise the building above the level of the highest tides; that then it should be floated off to its station on the rock, which should be previously prepared for its reception; that the cofferdam should be scuttled, and the ponderous mass of masonry, weighing perhaps 1000 tons, allowed to sink at once into its place!

All these plans, however, were rejected by Mr Stevenson, who resolved to carry the stones to the rock in boats constructed for the purpose. These were named praam boats. The stones were therefore cut in conformity with exactly measured moulds in the workyard at Arbroath, and conveyed thence in the sloops already mentioned to the rock, where the vessels were anchored at a distance sufficient to enable them to clear it in case of drifting. The cargoes were then unloaded at the moorings, and laid on the decks of the praam boats, which conveyed them to the rock, where they were laid on small trucks, run along the temporary rails, to their positions, and built in at once.

Each stone of this building was treated with as much care and solicitude as if it were a living creature. After being carefully cut and curiously formed, and conveyed to the neighbourhood of the rock, it was hoisted out of the hold and laid on the vessel’s deck, when it was handed over to the landing-master, whose duty it became to transfer it, by means of a combination of ropes and blocks, to the deck of the praam boat, and then deliver it at the rock.

As the sea was seldom calm during the building operations, and frequently in a state of great agitation, lowering the stones on the decks of the praam boats was a difficult matter.

In the act of working the apparatus, one man was placed at each of the guy-tackles. This man assisted also at the purchase-tackles for raising the stones; and one of the ablest and most active of the crew was appointed to hold on the end of the fall-tackle, which often required all his strength and his utmost agility in letting go, for the purpose of lowering the stone at the instant the word “lower” was given. In a rolling sea, much depended on the promptitude with which this part of the operation was performed. For the purpose of securing this, the man who held the tackle placed himself before the mast in a sitting, more frequently in a lying posture, with his feet stretched under the winch and abutting against the mast, as by this means he was enabled to exert his greatest strength.

The signal being given in the hold that the tackle was hooked to the stone and all ready, every man took his post, the stone was carefully, we might almost say tenderly, raised, and gradually got into position over the praam boat; the right moment was intently watched, and the word “lower” given sternly and sharply. The order was obeyed with exact promptitude, and the stone rested on the deck of the praam boat. Six blocks of granite having been thus placed on the boat’s deck, she was rowed to a buoy, and moored near the rock until the proper time of the tide for taking her into one of the landing creeks.

We are thus particular in describing the details of this part of the work, in order that the reader may be enabled to form a correct estimate of what may be termed the minor difficulties of the undertaking.

The same care was bestowed upon the landing of every stone of the building; and it is worthy of record, that notwithstanding the difficulty of this process in such peculiar circumstances, not a single stone was lost, or even seriously damaged, during the whole course of the erection of the tower, which occupied four years in building, or rather, we should say, four seasons, for no work was or could be done during winter.

A description of the first entire course of the lower part of the tower, which was built solid, will be sufficient to give an idea of the general nature of the whole work.

This course or layer consisted of 123 blocks of stone, those in the interior being sandstone, while the outer casing was of granite. Each stone was fastened to its neighbour above, below, and around by means of dovetails, joggles, oaken trenails, and mortar. Each course was thus built from its centre to its circumference, and as all the courses from the foundation to a height of thirty feet were built in this way, the tower, up to that height, became a mass of solid stone, as strong and immovable as the Bell Rock itself. Above this, or thirty feet from the foundation, the entrance-door was placed, and the hollow part of the tower began.

Thus much, then, as to the tower itself, the upper part of which will be found described in a future chapter. In regard to the subsidiary works, the erection of the beacon house was in itself a work of considerable difficulty, requiring no common effort of engineering skill. The principal beams of this having been towed to the rock by the Smeaton, all the stanchions and other material for setting them up were landed, and the workmen set about erecting them as quickly as possible, for if a single day of bad weather should occur before the necessary fixtures could be made, the whole apparatus would be infallibly swept away.

The operation being, perhaps, the most important of the season, and one requiring to be done with the utmost expedition, all hands were, on the day in which its erection was begun, gathered on the rock, besides ten additional men engaged for the purpose, and as many of the seamen from the Pharos and other vessels as could be spared. They amounted altogether to fifty-two in number.

About half-past eight o’clock in the morning a derrick, or mast, thirty feet high, was erected, and properly supported with guy-ropes for suspending the block for raising the first principal beam of the beacon, and a winch-machine was bolted down to the rock for working the purchase-tackle. The necessary blocks and tackle were likewise laid to hand and properly arranged. The men were severally allotted in squads to different stations; some were to bring the principal beams to hand, others were to work the tackles, while a third set had the charge of the iron stanchions, bolts, and wedges, so that the whole operation of raising the beams and fixing them to the rock might go forward in such a mariner that some provision might be made, in any stage of the work, for securing what had been accomplished, in case of an adverse change of weather.

The raising of the derrick was the signal for three hearty cheers, for this was a new era in the operations. Even that single spar, could it be preserved, would have been sufficient to have saved the workmen on that day when the Smeaton broke adrift and left them in such peril.

This was all, however, that could be accomplished that tide. Next day, the great beams, each fifty feet long, and about sixteen inches square, were towed to the rock about seven in the morning, and the work immediately commenced, although they had gone there so much too early in the tide that the men had to work a considerable time up to their middle in water. Each beam was raised by the tackle affixed to the derrick, until the end of it could be placed or “stepped” into the hole which had been previously prepared for its reception; then two of the great iron stanchions or supports were set into their respective holes on each side of the beam, and a rope passed round them to keep it from slipping, until it could be more permanently fixed.

This having been accomplished, the first beam became the means of raising the second, and when the first and second were fastened at the top, they formed a pair of shears by which the rest were more easily raised to their places. The heads of the beams were then fitted together and secured with ropes in a temporary manner, until the falling of the tide would permit the operations to be resumed.

Thus the work went on, each man labouring with all his might, until this important erection was completed.

The raising of the first beams took place on a Sunday. Indeed, during the progress of the works at the Bell Rock, the men were accustomed to work regularly on Sundays when possible; but it is right to say that it was not done in defiance of, or disregard to, God’s command to cease from labour on the Sabbath day, but because of the urgent need of a lighthouse on a rock which, unlighted, would be certain to wreck numerous vessels and destroy many lives in time to come, as it had done in time past. Delay in this matter might cause death and disaster, therefore it was deemed right to carry on the work on Sundays. (See note 1.)

An accident happened during the raising of the last large beam of the beacon, which, although alarming, fortunately caused no damage. Considering the nature of the work, it is amazing, and greatly to the credit of all engaged, that so few accidents occurred during the building of the lighthouse.

When they were in the act of hoisting the sixth and last log, and just about to cant it into its place, the iron hook of the principal purchase-block gave way, and the great beam, measuring fifty feet in length, fell upon the rock with a terrible crash; but although there were fifty-two men around the beacon at the time, not one was touched, and the beam itself received no damage worth mentioning.

Soon after the beacon had been set up, and partially secured to the rock, a severe gale sprang up, as if Ocean were impatient to test the handiwork of human engineers. Gales set in from the eastward, compelling the attending sloops to slip from their moorings, and run for the shelter of Arbroath and Saint Andrews, and raising a sea on the Bell Rock which was described as terrific, the spray rising more than thirty feet in the air above it.

In the midst of all this turmoil the beacon stood securely, and after the weather moderated, permitting the workmen once more to land, it was found that no damage had been done by the tremendous breaches of the sea over the rock.

That the power of the waves had indeed been very great, was evident from the effects observed on the rock itself, and on materials left there. Masses of rock upwards of a ton in weight had been cast up by the sea, and then, in their passage over the Bell Rock, had made deep and indelible ruts. An anchor of a ton weight, which had been lost on one side of the rock, was found to have been washed up and over it to the other side. Several large blocks of granite that had been landed and left on a ledge, were found to have been swept away like pebbles, and hurled into a hole at some distance; and the heavy hearth of the smith’s forge, with the ponderous anvil, had been washed from their places of supposed security.

From the time of the setting up of the beacon a new era in the work began. Some of the men were now enabled to remain on the rock all day, working at the lighthouse when the tide was low, and betaking themselves to the beacon when it rose, and leaving it at night; for there was much to do before this beacon could be made the habitable abode which it finally became; but it required the strictest attention to the state of the weather, in case of their being overtaken with a gale, which might prevent the possibility of their being taken off the rock.

At last the beacon was so far advanced and secured that it was deemed capable of withstanding any gale that might blow. As yet it was a great ungainly pile of logs, iron stanchions, and bracing-chains, without anything that could afford shelter to man from winds or waves, but with a platform laid from its cross-beams at a considerable height above high-water mark.

The works on the rock were in this state, when two memorable circumstances occurred in the Bell Rock annals, to which we shall devote a separate chapter.

Note 1. It was always arranged, however, to have public worship on Sundays when practicable. And this arrangement was held to during the continuance of the work. Indeed, the manner in which Mr Stevenson writes in regard to the conclusion of the day’s work at the beacon, which we have described, shows clearly that he felt himself to be acting in this matter in accordance with the spirit of our Saviour, who wrought many of His works of mercy on the Sabbath day. Mr Stevenson writes thus:—

“All hands having returned to their respective ships, they got a shift of dry clothes, and some refreshment. Being Sunday, they were afterwards convened by signal on board of the lighthouse yacht, when prayers were read, for every heart upon this occasion felt gladness, and every mind was disposed to be thankful for the happy and successful termination of the operations of this day.”

It is right to add that the men, although requested, were not constrained to work on Sundays. They were at liberty to decline if they chose. A few conscientiously refused at first, but were afterwards convinced of the necessity of working on all opportunities that offered, and agreed to do so.

Chapter Fifteen.

Ruby has a Rise in Life, and a Fall.

James Dove, the blacksmith, had, for some time past, been watching the advancing of the beacon-works with some interest, and a good deal of impatience. He was tired of working so constantly up to the knees in water, and aspired to a drier and more elevated workshop.

One morning he was told by the foreman that orders had been given for him to remove his forge to the beacon, and this removal, this “flitting”, as he called it, was the first of the memorable events referred to in the last chapter.

“Hallo! Ruby, my boy,” cried the elated son of Vulcan, as he descended the companion ladder, “we’re goin’ to flit, lad. We’re about to rise in the world, so get up your bellows. It’s the last time we shall have to be bothered with them in the boat, I hope.”

“That’s well,” said Ruby, shouldering the unwieldy bellows; “they have worn my shoulders threadbare, and tried my patience almost beyond endurance.”

“Well, it’s all over now, lad,” rejoined the smith. “In future you shall have to blow up in the beacon yonder; so come along.”

“Come, Ruby, that ought to comfort the cockles o’ yer heart,” said O’Connor, who passed up the ladder as he spoke; “the smith won’t need to blow you up any more, av you’re to blow yourself up in the beacon in futur’. Arrah! there’s the bell again. Sorrow wan o’ me iver gits to slape, but I’m turned up immadiately to go an’ poke away at that rock—faix, it’s well named the Bell Rock, for it makes me like to bellow me lungs out wid vexation.”

“That pun is below contempt,” said Joe Dumsby, who came up at the moment.

“That’s yer sort, laddies; ye’re guid at ringing the changes on that head onyway,” cried Watt.

“I say, we’re gittin’ a belly-full of it,” observed Forsyth, with a rueful look. “I hope nobody’s goin’ to give us another!”

“It’ll create a rebellion,” said Bremner, “if ye go on like that.”

“It’ll bring my bellows down on the head o’ the next man that speaks!” cried Ruby, with indignation.

“Don’t you hear the bell, there?” cried the foreman down the hatchway.

There was a burst of laughter at this unconscious continuation of the joke, and the men sprang up the ladder,—down the side, and into the boats, which were soon racing towards the rock.

The day, though not sunny, was calm and agreeable, nevertheless the landing at the rock was not easily accomplished, owing to the swell caused by a recent gale. After one or two narrow escapes of a ducking, however, the crews landed, and the bellows, instead of being conveyed to their usual place at the forge, were laid at the foot of the beacon.

The carriage of these bellows to and fro almost daily had been a subject of great annoyance to the men, owing to their being so much in the way, and so unmanageably bulky, yet so essential to the progress of the works, that they did not dare to leave them on the rock, lest they should be washed away, and they had to handle them tenderly, lest they should get damaged.

“Now, boys, lend a hand with the forge,” cried the smith, hurrying towards his anvil.

Those who were not busy eating dulse responded to the call, and in a short time the ponderous matériel of the smithy was conveyed to the beacon, where, in process of time, it was hoisted by means of tackle to its place on the platform to which reference has already been made.

When it was safely set up and the bellows placed in position, Ruby went to the edge of the platform, and, looking down on his comrades below, took off his cap and shouted in the tone of a Stentor, “Now, lads, three cheers for the Dovecot!”

This was received with a roar of laughter and three tremendous cheers.

“Howld on, boys,” cried O’Connor, stretching out his hand as if to command silence; “you’ll scare the dove from his cot altogether av ye roar like that!”

“Surely they’re sendin’ us a fire to warm us,” observed one of the men, pointing to a boat which had put off from the Smeaton, and was approaching the rock by way of Macurich’s Track.

“What can’d be, I wonder?” said Watt; “I think I can smell somethin’.”

“I halways thought you ’ad somethink of an old dog in you,” said Dumsby.

“Ay, man!” said the Scot with a leer, “I ken o’ war beasts than auld dowgs.”

“Do you? come let’s ’ear wat they are,” said the Englishman.

“Young puppies,” answered the other.

“Hurrah! dinner, as I’m a Dutchman,” cried Forsyth.

This was indeed the case. Dinner had been cooked on board the Smeaton and sent hot to the men; and this,—the first dinner ever eaten on the Bell Rock,—was the second of the memorable events before referred to.

The boat soon ran into the creek and landed the baskets containing the food on Hope’s Wharf.

The men at once made a rush at the viands, and bore them off exultingly to the flattest part of the rock they could find.

“A regular picnic,” cried Dumsby in high glee, for unusual events, of even a trifling kind, had the effect of elating those men more than one might have expected.

“Here’s the murphies,” cried O’Connor, staggering over the slippery weed with a large smoking tin dish.

“Mind you don’t let ’em fall,” cried one.

“Have a care,” shouted the smith; “if you drop them I’ll beat you red-hot, and hammer ye so flat that the biggest flatterer as ever walked won’t be able to spread ye out another half-inch.”

“Mutton! oh!” exclaimed Forsyth, who had been some time trying to wrench the cover off the basket containing a roast leg, and at last succeeded.

“Here, spread them all out on this rock. You han’t forgot the grog, I hope, steward?”

“No fear of him: he’s a good feller, is the steward, when he’s asleep partiklerly. The grog’s here all right.”

“Dinna let Dumsby git haud o’t, then,” cried Watt. “What! hae ye begood a’ready? Patience, man, patience. Is there ony saut?”

“Lots of it, darlin’, in the say. Sure this shape must have lost his tail somehow. Och, murther! if there isn’t Bobby Selkirk gone an’ tumbled into Port Hamilton wid the cabbage, av it’s not the carrots!”

“There now, don’t talk so much, boys,” cried Peter Logan. “Let’s drink success to the Bell Rock Lighthouse.”

It need scarcely be said that this toast was drunk with enthusiasm, and that it was followed up with “three times three.”

“Now for a song. Come, Joe Dumsby, strike up,” cried one of the men.

O’Connor, who was one of the most reckless of men in regard to duty and propriety, here shook his head gravely, and took upon himself to read his comrade a lesson.

“Ye shouldn’t talk o’ sitch things in workin’ hours,” said he. “Av we wos all foolish, waake-hidded cratures like you, how d’ye think we’d iver git the lighthouse sot up! Ate yer dinner, lad, and howld yer tongue.”

“O Ned, I didn’t think your jealousy would show out so strong,” retorted his comrade. “Now, then, Dumsby, fire away, if it was only to aggravate him.”

Thus pressed, Joe Dumsby took a deep draught of the small-beer with which the men were supplied, and began a song of his own composition.

When the song was finished the meal was also concluded, and the men returned to their labours on the rock; some to continue their work with the picks at the hard stone of the foundation-pit, others to perform miscellaneous jobs about the rock, such as mixing the mortar and removing débris, while James Dove and his fast friend Ruby Brand mounted to their airy “cot” on the beacon, from which in a short time began to proceed the volumes of smoke and the clanging sounds that had formerly arisen from “Smith’s Ledge.”

While they were all thus busily engaged, Ruby observed a boat advancing towards the rock from the floating light. He was blowing the bellows at the time, after a spell at the fore-hammer.

“We seem to be favoured with unusual events to-day, Jamie,” said he, wiping his forehead with the corner of his apron with one hand, while he worked the handle of the bellows with the other, “yonder comes another boat; what can it be, think you?”

“Surely it can’t be tea!” said the smith with a smile, as he turned the end of a pickaxe in the fire, “it’s too soon after dinner for that.”

“It looks like the boat of our friends the fishermen, Big Swankie and Davy Spink,” said Ruby, shading his eyes with his hand, and gazing earnestly at the boat as it advanced towards them.

“Friends!” repeated the smith, “rascally smugglers, both of them; they’re no friends of mine.”

“Well, I didn’t mean bosom friends,” replied Ruby, “but after all, Davy Spink is not such a bad fellow, though I can’t say that I’m fond of his comrade.”

The two men resumed their hammers at this point in the conversation, and became silent as long as the anvil sounded.

The boat had reached the rock when they ceased, and its occupants were seen to be in earnest conversation with Peter Logan.

There were only two men in the boat besides its owners, Swankie and Spink.

“What can they want?” said Dove, looking down on them as he turned to thrust the iron on which he was engaged into the fire.

As he spoke the foreman looked up.

“Ho! Ruby Brand,” he shouted, “come down here; you’re wanted.”

“Hallo! Ruby,” exclaimed the smith, “more friends o’ yours! Your acquaintance is extensive, lad, but there’s no girl in the case this time.”

Ruby made no reply, for an indefinable feeling of anxiety filled his breast as he threw down the fore-hammer and prepared to descend.

On reaching the rock he advanced towards the strangers, both of whom were stout, thickset men, with grave, stern countenances. One of them stepped forward and said, “Your name is—”

“Ruby Brand,” said the youth promptly, at the same time somewhat proudly, for he knew that he was in the hands of the Philistines.

The man who first spoke hereupon drew a small instrument from his pocket, and tapping Ruby on the shoulder, said—

“I arrest you, Ruby Brand, in the name of the King.”

The other man immediately stepped forward and produced a pair of handcuffs.

At sight of these Ruby sprang backward, and the blood rushed violently to his forehead, while his blue eyes glared with the ferocity of those of a tiger.

“Come, lad, it’s of no use, you know,” said the man, pausing; “if you won’t come quietly we must find ways and means to compel you.”

“Compel me!” cried Ruby, drawing himself up with a look of defiance and a laugh of contempt, that caused the two men to shrink back in spite of themselves.

“Ruby,” said the foreman, gently, stepping forward and laying his hand on the youth’s shoulder, “you had better go quietly, for there’s no chance of escape from these fellows. I have no doubt it’s a mistake, and that you’ll come off with flyin’ colours, but it’s best to go quietly whatever turns up.”

While Logan was speaking, Ruby dropped his head on his breast, the officer with the handcuffs advanced, and the youth held out his hands, while the flush of anger deepened into the crimson blush of shame.

It was at this point that Jamie Dove, wondering at the prolonged absence of his friend and assistant, looked down from the platform of the beacon, and beheld what was taking place.

The stentorian roar of amazement and rage that suddenly burst from him, attracted the attention of all the men on the rock, who dropped their tools and looked up in consternation, expecting, no doubt, to behold something terrible.

Their eyes at once followed those of the smith, and no sooner did they see Ruby being led in irons to the boat, which lay in Port Hamilton, close to Sir Ralph the Rover’s Ledge, than they uttered a yell of execration, and rushed with one accord to the rescue.

The officers, who were just about to make their prisoner step into the boat, turned to face the foe,—one, who seemed to be the more courageous of the two, a little in advance of the other.

Ned O’Connor, with that enthusiasm which seems to be inherent in Irish blood, rushed with such irresistible force against this man that he drove him violently back against his comrade, and sent them both head over heels into Port Hamilton. Nay, with such momentum was this act performed, that Ned could not help but follow them, falling on them both as they came to the surface and sinking them a second time, amid screams and yells of laughter.

O’Connor was at once pulled out by his friends. The officers also were quickly landed.

“I ax yer parding, gintlemen,” said the former, with an expression of deep regret on his face, “but the say-weed is so slippy on them rocks we’re almost for iver doin’ that sort o’ thing be the merest accident. But av yer as fond o’ cowld wather as meself ye won’t objec’ to it, although it do come raither onexpected.”

The officers made no reply, but, collaring Ruby, pushed him into the boat.

Again the men made a rush, but Peter Logan stood between them and the boat.

“Lads,” said he, holding up his hand, “it’s of no use resistin’ the law. These are King’s officers, and they are only doin’ their duty. Sure am I that Ruby Brand is guilty of no crime, so they’ve only to enquire into it and set him free.”

The men hesitated, but did not seem quite disposed to submit without another struggle.

“It’s a shame to let them take him,” cried the smith.

“So it is. I vote for a rescue,” cried Joe Dumsby.

“Hooray! so does I,” cried O’Connor, stripping off his waist-coat, and for once in his life agreeing with Joe.

“Na, na, lads,” cried John Watt, rolling up his sleeves, and baring his brawny arms as if about to engage in a fight, “it’ll niver do to interfere wi’ the law; but what d’ye say to gie them anither dook?”

Seeing that the men were about to act upon Watt’s suggestion, Ruby started up in the boat, and turning to his comrade, said:

“Boys, it’s very kind of you to be so anxious to save me but you can’t—”

“Faix, but we can, darlin’,” interrupted O’Connor.

“No, you can’t,” repeated Ruby firmly, “because I won’t let you. I don’t think I need say to you that I am innocent,” he added, with a look in which truth evidently shone forth like a sunbeam, “but now that they have put these irons on me I will not consent that they shall be taken off except by the law which put them on.”

While he was speaking the boat had been pushed off, and in a few seconds it was beyond the reach of the men.

“Depend upon it, comrades,” cried Ruby, as they pulled away, “that I shall be back again to help you to finish the work on the Bell Rock.”

“So you will, lad, so you will,” cried the foreman.

“My blessin’ on ye,” shouted O’Connor. “Ach! ye dirty villains, ye low-minded spalpeens,” he added, shaking his fist at the officers of justice.

“Don’t be long away, Ruby,” cried one.

“Never say die,” shouted another, earnestly.

“Three cheers for Ruby Brand!” exclaimed Forsyth, “hip! hip! hip!—”

The cheer was given with the most vociferous energy, and then the men stood in melancholy silence on Ralph the Rover’s Ledge, watching the boat that bore their comrade to the shore.

Chapter Sixteen.

New Arrangements—The Captain’s Philosophy in Regard to Pipeology.

That night our hero was lodged in the common jail of Arbroath. Soon after, he was tried, and, as Captain Ogilvy had prophesied, was acquitted. Thereafter he went to reside for the winter with his mother, occupying the same room as his worthy uncle, as there was not another spare one in the cottage, and sleeping in a hammock, slung parallel with and close to that of the captain.

On the night following his release from prison, Ruby lay on his back in his hammock meditating intently on the future, and gazing at the ceiling, or rather at the place where he knew the ceiling to be, for it was a dark night, and there was no light in the room, the candle having just been extinguished.

We are not strictly correct, however, in saying that there was no light in the room, for there was a deep red glowing spot of fire near to Captain Ogilvy’s head, which flashed and grew dim at each alternate second of time. It was, in fact, the captain’s pipe, a luxury in which that worthy man indulged morning, noon, and night. He usually rested the bowl of the pipe on and a little over the edge of his hammock, and, lying on his back, passed the mouthpiece over the blankets into the corner of his mouth, where four of his teeth seemed to have agreed to form an exactly round hole suited to receive it. At each draw the fire in the bowl glowed so that the captain’s nose was faintly illuminated; in the intervals the nose disappeared.

The breaking or letting fall of this pipe was a common incident in the captain’s nocturnal history, but he had got used to it, from long habit, and regarded the event each time it occurred with the philosophic composure of one who sees and makes up his mind to endure an inevitable and unavoidable evil.

“Ruby,” said the captain, after the candle was extinguished.

“Well, uncle?”

“I’ve bin thinkin’, lad,—”

Here the captain drew a few whiffs to prevent the pipe from going out, in which operation he evidently forgot himself and went on thinking, for he said nothing more.

“Well, uncle, what have you been thinking?”

“Eh! ah, yes, I’ve bin thinkin’, lad (pull), that you’ll have to (puff)—there’s somethin’ wrong with the pipe to-night, it don’t draw well (puff)—you’ll have to do somethin’ or other in the town, for it won’t do to leave the old woman, lad, in her delicate state o’ health. Had she turned in when you left the kitchen?”

“Oh yes, an hour or more.”

“An’ Blue Eyes,—

“‘The tender bit flower that waves in the breeze, And scatters its fragrance all over the seas.’

“Has she turned in too?”

“She was just going to when I left,” replied Ruby; “but what has that to do with the question?”

“I didn’t say as it had anything to do with it, lad. Moreover, there ain’t no question between us as I knows on (puff); but what have you to say to stoppin’ here all winter?”

“Impossible,” said Ruby, with a sigh.

“No so, lad; what’s to hinder?—Ah! there she goes.”

The pipe fell with a crash to the floor, and burst with a bright shower of sparks, like a little bombshell.

“That’s the third, Ruby, since I turned in,” said the captain, getting slowly over the side of his hammock, and alighting on the floor heavily. “I won’t git up again if it goes another time.”

After knocking off the chimney-piece five or six articles which appeared to be made of tin from the noise they made in falling, the captain succeeded in getting hold of another pipe and the tinder-box, for in those days flint and steel were the implements generally used in procuring a light. With much trouble he re-lit the pipe.

“Now, Ruby, lad, hold it till I tumble in.”

“But I can’t see the stem, uncle.”

“What a speech for a seaman to make! Don’t you see the fire in the bowl?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Well, just make a grab two inches astarn of the bowl and you’ll hook the stem.”

The captain was looking earnestly into the bowl while he spoke, stuffing down the burning tobacco with the end of his little finger. Ruby, acting in rather too prompt obedience to the instructions, made a “grab” as directed, and caught his uncle by the nose.

A yell and an apology followed of course, in the midst of which the fourth pipe was demolished.

“Oh! uncle, what a pity!”

“Ah! Ruby, that comes o’ inconsiderate youth, which philosophers tell us is the nat’ral consequence of unavoidable necessity, for you can’t put a young head on old shoulders, d’ye see?”

From the tone in which this was said Ruby knew that the captain was shaking his head gravely, and from the noise of articles being kicked about and falling, he became aware that the unconquerable man was filling a fifth pipe.

This one was more successfully managed, and the captain once more got into his hammock, and began to enjoy himself.

“Well, Ruby, where was I? O ay; what’s to hinder you goin’ and gettin’ employed in the Bell Rock workyard? There’s plenty to do, and good wages there.”

It may be as well to inform the reader here, that although the operations at the Bell Rock had come to an end for the season about the beginning of October, the work of hewing the stones for the lighthouse was carried on briskly during the winter at the workyard on shore; and as the tools, etcetera, required constant sharpening and mending, a blacksmith could not be dispensed with.

“Do you think I can get in again?” enquired Ruby.

“No doubt of it, lad. But the question is, are ye willin’ to go if they’ll take you?”

“Quite willing, uncle.”

“Good: then that’s all square, an’ I knows how to lay my course—up anchor to-morrow mornin’, crowd all sail, bear down on the workyard, bring-to off the countin’-room, and open fire on the superintendent.”

The captain paused at this point, and opened fire with his pipe for some minutes.

“Now,” he continued, “there’s another thing I want to ax you. I’m goin’ to-morrow afternoon to take a cruise along the cliffs to the east’ard in the preventive boat, just to keep up my sea legs. They’ve got scent o’ some smugglin’ business that’s goin’ on, an’ my friend Leftenant Lindsay has asked me to go. Now, Ruby, if you want a short cruise of an hour or so you may come with me.”

Ruby smiled at the manner in which this offer was made, and replied:

“With pleasure, uncle.”

“So, then, that’s settled too. Good night, nephy.”

The captain turned on his side, and dropped the pipe on the floor, where it was shivered to atoms.

It must not be supposed that this was accidental.

It was done on purpose. Captain Ogilvy had found from experience that it was not possible to stretch out his arm to its full extent and lay the pipe on the chimney-piece, without waking himself up just at that critical moment when sleep was consenting to be wooed. He also found that on the average he broke one in every four pipes that he thus attempted to deposit. Being a philosophical and practical man, he came to the conclusion that it would be worth while to pay something for the comfort of being undisturbed at the minute of time that lay between the conclusion of smoking and the commencement of repose. He therefore got a sheet of foolscap and a pencil, and spent a whole forenoon in abstruse calculations. He ascertained the exact value of three hundred and sixty-five clay pipes. From this he deducted a fourth for breakage that would have certainly occurred in the old system of laying the pipes down every night, and which, therefore, he felt, in a confused sort of way, ought not to be charged in the estimates of a new system. Then he added a small sum to the result for probable extra breakages, such as had occurred that night, and found that the total was not too high a price for a man in his circumstances to pay for the blessing he wished to obtain.

From that night forward he deliberately dropped his pipe every night over the side of his hammock before going to sleep.

The captain, in commenting on this subject, was wont to observe that everything in life, no matter how small, afforded matter of thought to philosophical men. He had himself found a pleasing subject of study each morning in the fact that some of the pipes survived the fall of the previous night. This led him to consider the nature of clay pipes in general, and to test them in various ways. It is true he did not say that anything of importance resulted from his peculiar studies, but he argued that a true philosopher looks for facts, and leaves results alone. One discovery he undoubtedly did make, which was, that the pipes obtained from a certain maker in the town invariably broke, while those obtained from another maker broke only occasionally. Hence he came to the conclusion that one maker was an honest man, the other a doubtful character, and wisely bestowed his custom in accordance with that opinion.

About one minute after the falling of the pipe Ruby Brand fell asleep, and about two minutes after that Captain Ogilvy began to snore, both of which conditions were maintained respectively and uninterruptedly until the birds began to whistle and the sun began to shine.

Chapter Seventeen.

A Meeting with Old Friends, and an Excursion.

Next morning the captain and his nephew “bore down”, as the former expressed it, on the workyard, and Ruby was readily accepted, his good qualities having already been well tested at the Bell Rock.

“Now, boy, we’ll go and see about the little preventive craft,” said the captain on quitting the office.

“But first,” said Ruby, “let me go and tell my old comrade Dove that I am to be with him again.”

There was no need to enquire the way to the forge, the sound of the anvil being distinctly heard above all the other sounds of that busy spot.

The workyard at Arbroath, where the stones for the lighthouse were collected and hewn into shape before being sent off to the rock, was an enclosed piece of ground, extending to about three-quarters of an acre, conveniently situated on the northern side of the Lady Lane, or Street, leading from the western side of the harbour.

Here were built a row of barracks for the workmen, and several apartments connected with the engineer’s office, mould-makers’ department, stores, workshops for smiths and joiners, stables, etcetera, extending 150 feet along the north side of the yard. All of these were fully occupied, there being upwards of forty men employed permanently.

Sheds of timber were also constructed to protect the workmen in wet weather; and a kiln was built for burning lime. In the centre of the yard stood a circular platform of masonry on which the stones were placed when dressed, so that each stone was tested and marked, and each “course” or layer of the lighthouse fitted up and tried, before being shipped to the rock.

The platform measured 44 feet in diameter. It was founded with large broad stones at a depth of about 2 feet 6 inches, and built to within 10 inches of the surface with rubble work, on which a course of neatly dressed and well-jointed masonry was laid, of the red sandstone from the quarries to the eastward of Arbroath, which brought the platform on a level with the surface of the ground. Here the dressed part of the first entire course, or layer, of the lighthouse was lying, and the platform was so substantially built as to be capable of supporting any number of courses which it might be found convenient to lay upon it in the further progress of the work.

Passing this platform, the captain and Ruby threaded their way through a mass of workyard débris until they came to the building from which the sounds of the anvil proceeded. For a few minutes they stood looking at our old friend Jamie Dove, who, with bared arms, was causing the sparks to fly, and the glowing metal to yield, as vigorously as of old. Presently he ceased hammering, and turning to the fire thrust the metal into it. Then he wiped his brow, and glanced towards the door.

“What! eh! Ruby Brand?” he shouted in surprise.

“Och! or his ghost!” cried Ned O’Connor, who had been appointed to Ruby’s vacant situation.

“A pretty solid ghost you’ll find me,” said Ruby with a laugh, as he stepped forward and seized the smith by the hand.

“Musha! but it’s thrue,” cried O’Connor, quitting the bellows, and seizing Ruby’s disengaged hand, which he shook almost as vehemently as the smith did the other.

“Now, then, don’t dislocate him altogether,” cried the captain, who was much delighted with this warm reception; “he’s goin’ to jine you, boys, so have mercy on his old timbers.”

“Jine us!” cried the smith.

“Ay, been appointed to the old berth,” said Ruby, “so I’ll have to unship you, Ned.”

“The sooner the better; faix, I niver had much notion o’ this fiery style o’ life; it’s only fit for sallymanders and bottle-imps. But when d’ye begin work, lad?”

“To-morrow, I believe. At least, I was told to call at the office to-morrow. To-day I have an engagement.”

“Ay, an’ it’s time we was under weigh,” said Captain Ogilvy, taking his nephew by the arm. “Come along, lad, an’ don’t keep them waiting.”

So saying they bade the smith goodbye, and, leaving the forge, walked smartly towards that part of the harbour where the boats lay.

“Ruby,” said the captain, as they went along, “it’s lucky it’s such a fine day, for Minnie is going with us.”

Ruby said nothing, but the deep flush of pleasure that overspread his countenance proved that he was not indifferent to the news.

“You see she’s bin out of sorts,” continued the captain, “for some time back; and no wonder, poor thing, seein’ that your mother has been so anxious about you, and required more than usual care, so I’ve prevailed on the leftenant to let her go. She’ll get good by our afternoon’s sail, and we won’t be the worse of her company. What say ye to that, nephy?”

Ruby said that he was glad to hear it, but he thought a great deal more than he said, and among other things he thought that the lieutenant might perhaps be rather in the way; but as his presence was unavoidable he made up his mind to try to believe that he, the lieutenant, would in all probability be an engaged man already. As to the possibility of his seeing Minnie and being indifferent to her (in the event of his being a free man), he felt that such an idea was preposterous! Suddenly a thought flashed across him and induced a question—

“Is the lieutenant married, uncle?”

“Not as I know of, lad; why d’ye ask?”

“Because—because—married men are so much pleasanter than—”

Ruby stopped short, for he just then remembered that his uncle was a bachelor.

“’Pon my word, youngster! go on, why d’ye stop in your purlite remark?”

“Because,” said Ruby, laughing, “I meant to say that young married men were so much more agreeable than young bachelors.”

“Humph!” ejaculated the captain, who did not see much force in the observation, “and how d’ye know the leftenant’s a young man? I didn’t say he was young; mayhap he’s old. But here he is, so you’ll judge for yourself.”

At the moment a tall, deeply-bronzed man of about thirty years of age walked up and greeted Captain Ogilvy familiarly as his “buck”, enquiring, at the same time, how his “old timbers” were, and where the “bit of baggage” was.

“She’s to be at the end o’ the pier in five minutes,” said the captain, drawing out and consulting a watch that was large enough to have been mistaken for a small eight-day clock. “This is my nephy, Ruby. Ruby Brand—Leftenant Lindsay. True blues, both of ye—

“‘When shall we three meet again? Where the stormy winds do blow, do blow, do blow, And the thunder, lightenin’, and the rain, Riots up above, and also down below, below, below.’

“Ah! here comes the pretty little craft.”

Minnie appeared as he spoke, and walked towards them with a modest, yet decided air that was positively bewitching.

She was dressed in homely garments, but that served to enhance the beauty of her figure, and she had on the plainest of little bonnets, but that only tended to make her face more lovely. Ruby thought it was perfection. He glanced at Lieutenant Lindsay, and perceiving that he thought so too (as how could he think otherwise?) a pang of jealousy shot into his breast. But it passed away when the lieutenant, after politely assisting Minnie into the boat, sat down beside the captain and began to talk earnestly to him, leaving Minnie entirely to her lover. We may remark here, that the title of “leftenant”, bestowed on Lindsay by the captain was entirely complimentary.

The crew of the boat rowed out of the harbour, and the lieutenant steered eastward, towards the cliffs that have been mentioned in an earlier part of our tale.

The day turned out to be one of those magnificent and exceptional days which appear to have been cut out of summer and interpolated into autumn. It was bright, warm, and calm, so calm that the boat’s sail was useless, and the crew had to row; but this was, in Minnie’s estimation, no disadvantage, for it gave her time to see the caves and picturesque inlets which abound all along that rocky coast. It also gave her time to—but no matter.

“O how very much I should like to have a little boat,” said Minnie, with enthusiasm, “and spend a long day rowing in and out among these wild rocks, and exploring the caves! Wouldn’t it be delightful, Ruby?”

Ruby admitted that it would, and added, “You shall have such a day, Minnie, if we live long.”

“Have you ever been in the Forbidden Cave?” enquired Minnie.

“I’ll warrant you he has,” cried the captain, who overheard the question; “you may be sure that wherever Ruby is forbidden to go, there he’ll be sure to go!”

“Ay, is he so self-willed?” asked the lieutenant, with a smile, and a glance at Minnie.

“A mule; a positive mule,” said the captain.

“Come, uncle, you know that I don’t deserve such a character, and it’s too bad to give it to me to-day. Did I not agree to come on this excursion at once, when you asked me?”

“Ay, but you wouldn’t if I had ordered you,” returned the captain.

“I rather think he would,” observed the lieutenant, with another smile, and another glance at Minnie.

Both smiles and glances were observed and noticed by Ruby, whose heart felt another pang shoot through it; but this, like the former, subsided when the lieutenant again addressed the captain, and devoted himself to him so exclusively, that Ruby began to feel a touch of indignation at his want of appreciation of such a girl as Minnie.

“He’s a stupid ass,” thought Ruby to himself, and then, turning to Minnie, directed her attention to a curious natural arch on the cliffs, and sought to forget all the rest of the world.

In this effort he was successful, and had gradually worked himself into the firm belief that the world was paradise, and that he and Minnie were its sole occupants—a second edition, as it were, of Adam and Eve—when the lieutenant rudely dispelled the sweet dream by saying sharply to the man at the bow-oar—

“Is that the boat, Baker? You ought to know it pretty well.”

“I think it is, sir,” answered the man, resting on his oar a moment, and glancing over his shoulder; “but I can’t be sure at this distance.”

“Well, pull easy,” said the lieutenant; “you see, it won’t do to scare them, Captain Ogilvy, and they’ll think we’re a pleasure party when they see a woman in the boat.”

Ruby thought they would not be far wrong in supposing them a pleasure party. He objected, mentally, however, to Minnie being styled a “woman”—not that he would have had her called a man, but he thought that girl would have been more suitable—angel, perhaps, the most appropriate term of all.

“Come, captain, I think I will join you in a pipe,” said the lieutenant, pulling out a tin case, in which he kept the blackest of little cutty pipes. “In days of old our ancestors loved to fight—now we degenerate souls love to smoke the pipe of peace.”

“I did not know that your ancestors were enemies,” said Minnie to the captain.

“Enemies, lass! ay, that they were. What! have ye never heard tell o’ the great fight between the Ogilvys and Lindsays?”

“Never,” said Minnie.

“Then, my girl, your education has been neglected, but I’ll do what I can to remedy that defect.”

Here the captain rekindled his pipe (which was in the habit of going out, and requiring to be relighted), and, clearing his throat with the emphasis of one who is about to communicate something of importance, held forth as follows.

Chapter Eighteen.

The Battle of Arbroath, and Other Warlike Matters.

“It was in the year 1445—that’s not far short o’ four hundred years ago—ah! tempus fugit, which is a Latin quotation, my girl, from Horace Walpole, I believe, an’ signifies time and tide waits for no man; that’s what they calls a free translation, you must know; well, it was in the winter o’ 1445 that a certain Alexander Ogilvy of Inverquharity, was chosen to act as Chief Justiciar in these parts—I suppose that means a kind of upper bailiff, a sort o’ bo’s’n’s mate, to compare great things with small. He was set up in place of one o’ the Lindsay family, who, it seems, was rather extravagant, though whether his extravagance lay in wearin’ a beard (for he was called Earl Beardie), or in spendin’ too much cash, I can’t take upon me for to say. Anyhow, Beardie refused to haul down his colours, so the Ogilvys mustered their men and friends, and the Lindsays did the same, and they went at it, hammer and tongs, and fowt what ye may call the Battle of Arbroath, for it was close to the old town where they fell to.

“It was a most bloody affair. The two families were connected with many o’ the richest and greatest people in the land, and these went to lend a hand when they beat to quarters, and there was no end o’ barbed horses, as they call them—which means critters with steel spikes in their noses, I’m told—and lots of embroidered banners and flags, though I never heard that anyone hoisted the Union Jack; but, however that may be, they fowt like bluejackets, for five hundred men were left dead on the field, an’ among them a lot o’ the great folk.

“But I’m sorry to say that the Ogilvys were licked, though I say it that shouldn’t,” continued the captain, with a sigh, as he relighted his pipe. “Howsever,—

“‘Never ventur’, never win, Blaze away an’ don’t give in,’

“As Milton remarks in his preface to the Pilgrim’s Progress.”

“True, captain,” said the lieutenant, “and you know that he who fights and runs away, shall live to fight another day.”

“Leftenant,” said the captain gravely, “your quotation, besides bein’ a kind o’ desecration, is not applicable; ’cause the Ogilvys did not run away. They fowt on that occasion like born imps, an’ they would ha’ certainly won the day, if they hadn’t been, every man jack of ’em, cut to pieces before the battle was finished.”

“Well said, uncle,” exclaimed Ruby, with a laugh. “No doubt the Ogilvys would lick the Lindsays now if they had a chance.”

“I believe they would,” said the lieutenant, “for they have become a race of heroes since the great day of the Battle of Arbroath. No doubt, Miss Gray,” continued the lieutenant, turning to Minnie with an arch smile, “no doubt you have heard of that more recent event, the threatened attack on Arbroath by the French fire-eater, Captain Fall, and the heroic part played on that occasion by an Ogilvy—an uncle, I am told, of my good friend here?”

“I have heard of Captain Fall, of course,” replied Minnie, “for it was not many years before I was born that his visit took place, and Mrs Brand has often told me of the consternation into which the town was thrown by his doings; but I never heard of the deeds of the Ogilvy to whom you refer.”

“No? Now, that is surprising! How comes it, captain, that you have kept so silent on this subject?”

“’Cause it ain’t true,” replied the captain stoutly, yet with a peculiar curl about the corners of his mouth, that implied something in the mind beyond what he expressed with the lips.

“Ah! I see—modesty,” said Lindsay. “Your uncle is innately modest, Miss Gray, and never speaks of anything that bears the slightest resemblance to boasting. See, the grave solemnity with which he smokes while I say this proves the truth of my assertion. Well, since he has never told you, I will tell yell myself. You have no objection, captain?”

The captain sent a volume of smoke from his lips, and followed it up with— “Fire away, shipmet.”

The lieutenant, having drawn a few whiffs in order to ensure the continued combustion of his pipe, related the following anecdote, which is now matter of history, as anyone may find by consulting the archives of Arbroath.

“In the year 1781, on a fine evening of the month of May, the seamen of Arbroath who chanced to be loitering about the harbour observed a strange vessel manoeuvring in the offing. They watched and commented on the motions of the stranger with considerable interest, for the wary skill displayed by her commander proved that he was unacquainted with the navigation of the coast, and from the cut of her jib they knew that the craft was a foreigner. After a time she took up a position, and cast anchor in the bay, directly opposite the town.

“At that time we were, as we still are, and as it really appears likely to me we ever shall be, at war with France; but as the scene of the war was far removed from Arbroath, it never occurred to the good people that the smell of powder could reach their peaceful town. That idea was somewhat rudely forced upon them when the French flag was run up to the mizzentop, and a white puff of smoke burst from the vessel, which was followed by a shot, that went hissing over their heads, and plumped right into the middle of the town!

“That shot knocked over fifteen chimney-pots and two weathercocks in Market-gate, went slap through a house in the suburbs, and finally stuck in the carcass of an old horse belonging to the Provost of the town, which didn’t survive the shock—the horse, I mean, not the Provost.

“It is said that there was an old gentleman lying in bed in a room of the house that the shot went through. He was a sort of ‘hipped’ character, and believed that he could not walk, if he were to try ever so much. He was looking quietly at the face of a great Dutch clock when the shot entered and knocked the clock inside out, sending its contents in a shower over the old gentleman, who jumped up and rushed out of the house like a maniac! He was cured completely from that hour. At least, so it’s said, but I don’t vouch for the truth of the story.

“However, certain it is that the shot was fired, and was followed up by two or three more; after which the Frenchman ceased firing, and a boat was seen to quit the side of the craft, bearing a flag of truce.

“The consternation into which the town was thrown is said to have been tremendous.”

“That’s false,” interrupted the captain, removing his pipe while he spoke. “The word ain’t appropriate. The men of Arbroath doesn’t know nothin’ about no such word as ‘consternation.’ They was surprised, if ye choose, an’ powerfully enraged mayhap, but they wasn’t consternated by no means.”

“Well, I don’t insist on the point,” said the lieutenant, “but chroniclers write so—

“Chroniclers write lies sometimes,” interrupted the captain curtly.

“Perhaps they do; but you will admit, I dare say, that the women and children were thrown into a great state of alarm.”

“I’m not so sure of that,” interposed Ruby. “In a town where the men were so bold, the women and children would be apt to feel very much at their ease. At all events, I am acquainted with some women who are not easily frightened.”

“Really, I think it is not fair to interrupt the story in this way,” said Minnie, with a laugh.

“Right, lass, right,” said the captain. “Come, leftenant, spin away at yer yarn, and don’t ventur’ too much commentary thereon, ’cause it’s apt to lead to error, an’ ye know, as the poet says—

“‘Errors in the heart breed errors in the brain, An’ these are apt to twist ye wrong again.’

“I’m not ’xactly sure o’ the precise words in this case, but that’s the sentiment, and everybody knows that sentiment is everything in poetry, whether ye understand it or not. Fire away, leftenant, an’ don’t be long-winded if ye can help it.”

“Well, to return to the point,” resumed Lindsay. “The town was certainly thrown into a tremendous state of some sort, for the people had no arms of any kind wherewith to defend themselves. There were no regular soldiers, no militia, and no volunteers. Everybody ran wildly about in every direction, not knowing what to do. There was no leader, and, in short, the town was very like a shoal of small fish in a pool when a boy wades in and makes a dash amongst them.

“At last a little order was restored by the Provost, who was a sensible old man, and an old soldier to boot, but too infirm to take as active a part in such an emergency as he would have done had he been a dozen years younger. He, with several of the principal men of the town, went down to the beach to receive the bearers of the flag of truce.

“The boat was manned by a crew of five or six seamen, armed with cutlasses and arquebusses. As soon as its keel grated on the sand a smart little officer leaped ashore, and presented to the Provost a letter from Captain Fall, which ran somewhat in this fashion:—

“‘At Sea, May twenty-third.

“‘Gentlemen,—I send these two words to inform you, that I will have you to bring-to the French colour in less than a quarter of an hour, or I set the town on fire directly. Such is the order of my master, the King of France, I am sent by. Send directly the Mair and chiefs of the town to make some agreement with me, or I’ll make my duty. It is the will of yours,— G. Fall.

“‘To Monsieur Mair of the town called Arbrought, or in his absence to the chief man after him in Scotland.’

“On reading this the Provost bowed respectfully to the officer, and begged of him to wait a few minutes while he should consult with his chief men. This was agreed to, and the Provost said to his friends, as he walked to a neighbouring house—

“‘Ye see, freens, this whipper-snapper o’ a tade-eater has gotten the whup hand o’ us; but we’ll be upsides wi’ him. The main thing is to get delay, so cut away, Tam Cargill, and tak’ horse to Montrose for the sodgers. Spare na the spur, lad, an’ gar them to understan’ that the case is urgent.’

“While Tam Cargill started away on his mission, the Provost, whose chief aim was to gain time and cause delay, penned an epistle to the Frenchman, in which he stated that he had neglected to name the terms on which he would consent to spare the town, and that he would consider it extremely obliging if he would, as speedily as possible, return an answer, stating them, in order that they might be laid before the chief men of the place.”

“When the Provost, who was a grave, dignified old man, with a strong dash of humour in him, handed this note to the French officer, he did so with a humble obeisance that appeared to afford much gratification to the little man. As the latter jumped into the boat and ordered the men to push off, the Provost turned slowly to his brother magistrates with a wink and a quiet smile that convulsed them with suppressed laughter, and did more to encourage any of the wavering or timid inhabitants than if he had harangued them heroically for an hour.

“Some time after the boat returned with a reply, which ran thus:—

“‘At Sea, eight o’clock in the Afternoon.’

“‘Gentlemen,—I received just now your answer, by which you say I ask no terms. I thought it was useless, since I asked you to come aboard for agreement. But here are my terms:— I will have 30,000 pounds sterling at least, and six of the chiefs men of the town for otage. Be speedy, or I shot your town away directly, and I set fire to it. I am, gentlemen, your servant,— G. Fall.

“‘I sent some of my crew to you, but if some harm happens to them, you’ll be sure we’ll hang up the mainyard all the prisoners we have aboard.

“‘To Monsieurs the chiefs men of Arbrought in Scotland.’

“I’m not quite certain,” continued the lieutenant, “what were the exact words of the Provost’s reply to this letter, but they conveyed a distinct and contemptuous refusal to accede to any terms, and, I believe, invited Fall to come ashore, where, if he did not get precisely what he had asked, he would be certain to receive a great deal more than he wanted.

“The enraged and disappointed Frenchman at once began a heavy fire upon the town, and continued it for a long time, but fortunately it did little or no harm, as the town lay in a somewhat low position, and Fall’s guns being too much elevated, the shot passed over it.

“Next day another letter was sent to the Provost by some fishermen, who were captured while fishing off the Bell Rock. This letter was as tremendous as the two former. I can give it to you, word for word, from memory.

“‘At Sea, May 24th.’

“‘Gentlemen,—See whether you will come to some terms with me, or I come in presently with my cutter into the arbour, and I will cast down the town all over. Make haste, because I have no time to spare. I give you a quarter of an hour to your decision, and after I’ll make my duty. I think it would be better for you, gentlemen, to come some of you aboard presently, to settle the affairs of your town. You’ll sure no to be hurt. I give you my parole of honour. I am your, G. Fall.’

“When the Provost received this he looked round and said, ‘Now, gentlemen all, we’ll hae to fight. Send me Ogilvy.’

“‘Here I am, Provost,’ cried a stout, active young fellow; something like what the captain must have been when he was young, I should think!”

“Ahem!” coughed the captain.

“Well,” continued Lindsay, “the Provost said, ‘Now, Ogilvy, you’re a smart cheel, an’ ken aboot war and strategy and the like: I charge ye to organise the men o’ the toon without delay, and tak’ what steps ye think adveesable. Meanwhile, I’ll away and ripe oot a’ the airms and guns I can find. Haste ye, lad, an’ mak’ as muckle noise aboot it as ye can.’

“‘Trust me,’ said Ogilvy, who appeared to have been one of those men who regard a fight as a piece of good fun.

“Turning to the multitude, who had heard the commission given, and were ready for anything, he shouted, ‘Now, boys, ye heard the Provost. I need not ask if you are all ready to fight—’

“A deafening cheer interrupted the speaker, who, when it ceased, proceeded—

“‘Well, then, I’ve but one piece of advice to give ye: Obey orders at once. When I tell ye to halt, stop dead like lampposts; when I say, “Charge!” go at them like wild cats, and drive the Frenchmen into the sea!’ ‘Hurrah!’ yelled the crowd, for they were wild with excitement and rage, and only wanted a leader to organise them and make them formidable. When the cheer ceased, Ogilvy cried, ‘Now, then, every man who knows how to beat a kettledrum and blow a trumpet come here.’

“About twenty men answered to the summons, and to these Ogilvy said aloud, in order that all might hear, ‘Go, get you all the trumpets, drums, horns, bugles, and trombones in the town; beat the drums till they split, and blow the bugles till they burst, and don’t give in till ye can’t go on. The rest of you,’ he added, turning to the crowd, ‘go, get arms, guns, swords, pistols, scythes, pitchforks, pokers—any thing, everything—and meet me at the head of Market-gate—away!’

“No king of necromancers ever dispersed his legions more rapidly than did Ogilvy on that occasion. They gave one final cheer, and scattered like chaff before the wind, leaving their commander alone, with a select few, whom he kept by him as a sort of staff to consult with and despatch with orders.

“The noise that instantly ensued in the town was something pandemoniacal. Only three drums were found, but tin kettles and pans were not wanting, and these, superintended by Hugh Barr, the town drummer, did great execution. Three key-bugles, an old French horn, and a tin trumpet of a mail-coach guard, were sounded at intervals in every quarter of the town, while the men were marshalled, and made to march hither and thither in detached bodies, as if all were busily engaged in making preparations for a formidable defence.

“In one somewhat elevated position a number of men were set to work with spades, picks, and shovels, to throw up an earthwork. When it had assumed sufficiently large dimensions to attract the attention of the French, a body of men, with blue jackets, and caps with bits of red flannel hanging down the sides, were marched up behind it at the double, and posted there.

“Meanwhile Ogilvy had prepared a dummy field piece, by dismounting a cart from its wheels and fixing on the axle a great old wooden pump, not unlike a big gun in shape; another cart was attached to this to represent a limber; four horses were harnessed to the affair; two men mounted these, and, amid a tremendous flourish of trumpets and beating of drums, the artillery went crashing along the streets and up the eminence crowned by the earthwork, where they wheeled the gun into position.

“The artillerymen sprang at the old pump like true Britons, and began to sponge it out as if they had been bred to gunnery from childhood, while the limber was detached and galloped to the rear. In this operation the cart was smashed to pieces, and the two hindmost horses were thrown; but this mattered little, as they had got round a corner, and the French did not see it.

“Fall and his brave men seem to have been upset altogether by these warlike demonstrations, for the moment the big gun made its appearance the sails were shaken loose, and the French privateer sheered off; capturing as he left the bay, however, several small vessels, which he carried off as prizes to France. And so,” concluded the lieutenant, “Captain Fall sailed away, and never was heard of more.”

“Well told; well told, leftenant,” cried the captain, whose eyes sparkled at the concluding account of the defensive operations, “and true every word of it.”

“That’s good testimony to my truthfulness, then,” said Lindsay, laughing, “for you were there yourself!”

“There yourself, uncle?” repeated Minnie, with a glance of surprise that quickly changed into a look of intelligence, as she exclaimed, with a merry laugh, “Ah! I see. It was you, uncle, who did it all; who commanded on that occasion—”

“My child,” said the captain, resuming his pipe with an expression of mild reproof on his countenance, “don’t go for to pry too deep into things o’ the past. I may have been a fire-eater once—I may have been a gay young feller as could—; but no matter. Avast musin’! As Lord Bacon says—

“‘The light of other days is faded, An’ all their glory’s past; My boots no longer look as they did, But, like my coat, are goin’ fast.’

“But I say, leftenant, how long do you mean to keep pullin’ about here, without an enemy, or, as far as I can see, an object in view? Don’t you think we might land, and let Minnie see some of the caves?”

“With all my heart, captain, and here is a convenient bay to run the boat ashore.”

As he spoke the boat shot past one of those bold promontories of red sandstone which project along that coast in wild picturesque forms, terminating in some instances in detached headlands, elsewhere in natural arches. The cliffs were so close to the boat that they could have been touched by the oars, while the rocks, rising to a considerable height, almost overhung them. Just beyond this a beautiful bay opened up to view, with a narrow strip of yellow shingle round the base of the cliffs, which here lost for a short distance their rugged character, though not their height, and were covered with herbage. A zigzag path led to the top, and the whole neighbourhood was full of ocean-worn coves and gullies, some of them dry, and many filled with water, while others were filled at high tide, and left empty when the tides fell.

“O how beautiful! and what a place for smugglers!” was Minnie’s enthusiastic exclamation on first catching sight of the bay.

“The smugglers and you would appear to be of one mind,” said Ruby, “for they are particularly fond of this place.”

“So fond of it,” said the lieutenant, “that I mean to wait for them here in anticipation of a moonlight visit this night, if my fair passenger will consent to wander in such wild places at such late hours, guarded from the night air by my boat-cloak, and assured of the protection of my stout boatmen in case of any danger, although there is little prospect of our meeting with any greater danger than a breeze or a shower of rain.”

Minnie said that she would like nothing better; that she did not mind the night air; and, as to danger from men, she felt that she should be well cared for in present circumstances.

As she uttered the last words she naturally glanced at Ruby, for Minnie was of a dependent and trusting nature; but as Ruby happened to be regarding her intently, though quite accidentally, at the moment, she dropped her eyes and blushed.

It is wonderful the power of a little glance at times. The glance referred to made Ruby perfectly happy. It conveyed to him the assurance that Minnie regarded the protection of the entire boat’s crew, including the lieutenant, as quite unnecessary, and that she deemed his single arm all that she required or wanted.

The sun was just dipping behind the tall cliffs, and his parting rays were kissing the top of Minnie’s head as if they positively could not help it, and had recklessly made up their mind to do it, come what might!

Ruby looked at the golden light kissing the golden hair, and he felt—

Oh! you know, reader; if you have ever been in similar circumstances, you understand what he felt; if you have not, no words from me, or from any other man, can ever convey to you the most distant idea of what Ruby felt on that occasion!

On reaching the shore they all went up to the green banks at the foot of the cliffs, and turned round to watch the men as they pulled the boat to a convenient point for re-embarking at a moment’s notice.

“You see,” said the lieutenant, pursuing a conversation which he had been holding with the captain, “I have been told that Big Swankie, and his mate Davy Spink (who, it seems, is not over-friendly with him just now), mean to visit one of the luggers which is expected to come in to-night, before the moon rises, and bring off some kegs of Auchmithie water, which, no doubt, they will try to hide in Dickmont’s Den. I shall lie snugly here on the watch, and hope to nab them before they reach that celebrated old smuggler’s abode.”

“Well, I’ll stay about here,” said the captain, “and show Minnie the caves. I would like to have taken her to see the Gaylet Pot, which is one o’ the queerest hereabouts; but I’m too old for such rough work now.”

“But I am not too old for it,” interposed Ruby, “so if Minnie would like to go—”

“But I won’t desert you, uncle,” said Minnie hastily.

“Nay, lass, call it not desertion. I can smoke my pipe here, an’ contemplate. I’m fond of contemplation—

“‘By the starry light of the summer night, On the banks of the blue Moselle,’

“Though, for the matter o’ that, moonlight’ll do, if there’s no stars. I think it’s good for the mind, Minnie, and keeps all taut. Contemplation is just like takin’ an extra pull on the lee braces. So you may go with Ruby, lass.”

Thus advised, and being further urged by Ruby himself, and being moreover exceedingly anxious to see this cave, Minnie consented; so the two set off together, and, climbing to the summit of the cliffs, followed the narrow footpath that runs close to their giddy edge all along the coast.

In less than half an hour they reached the Giel or Gaylet Pot.

Chapter Nineteen.

An Adventure—Secrets Revealed, and a Prize.

The Giel or Gaylet Pot, down into which Ruby, with great care and circumspection, led Minnie, is one of the most curious of Nature’s freaks among the cliffs of Arbroath.

In some places there is a small scrap of pebbly beach at the base of those perpendicular cliffs; in most places there is none—the cliffs presenting to the sea almost a dead wall, where neither ship nor boat could find refuge from the storm.

The country, inland, however, does not partake of the rugged nature of the cliffs. It slopes gradually towards them—so gradually that it may be termed flat, and if a stranger were to walk towards the sea over the fields in a dark night, the first intimation he would receive of his dangerous position would be when his foot descended into the terrible abyss that would receive his shattered frame a hundred feet below.

In one of the fields there is a hole about a hundred yards across, and as deep as the cliffs in that part are high. It is about fifty or eighty yards from the edge of the cliffs, and resembles an old quarry; but it is cut so sharply out of the flat field that it shows no sign of its existence until the traveller is close upon it. The rocky sides, too, are so steep, that at first sight it seems as if no man could descend into it. But the most peculiar point about this hole is, that at the foot of it there is the opening of a cavern, through which the sea rolls into the hole, and breaks in wavelets on a miniature shore. The sea has forced its way inland and underground until it has burst into the bottom of this hole, which is not inaptly compared to a pot with water boiling at the bottom of it. When a spectator looks into the cave, standing at the bottom of the “Pot”, he sees the seaward opening at the other end—a bright spot of light in the dark interior.