It was a braw spring morn, and Tam whustled as he claught in the young geese.
Mony’s the time I’ve heard him tell of this experience, and aye the swat ran upon the man.
It chanced, ye see, that Tam keeked up, and he was awaur of a muckle solan, and the solan pyking at the line.
He thocht this by-ordinar and outside the creature’s habits.
He minded that ropes was unco saft things, and the solan’s neb and the Bass Rock unco hard, and that twa hunner feet were raither mair than he would care to fa’.
“Shoo!” says Tam. “Awa’, bird! Shoo, awa’ wi’ ye!” says he.
The solan keekit doon into Tam’s face, and there was something unco in the creature’s ee.
Just the ae keek it gied, and back to the rope.
But now it wroucht and warstl’t like a thing dementit.
There never was the solan made that wroucht as that solan wroucht; and it seemed to understand its employ brawly, birzing the saft rope between the neb of it and a crunkled jag o’ stane.
There gaed a cauld stend o’ fear into Tam’s heart.
“This thing is nae bird,” thinks he.
His een turnt backward in his heid and the day gaed black aboot him.
“If I get a dwam here,” he toucht, “it’s by wi’ Tam Dale.”
And he signalled for the lads to pu’ him up.
And it seemed the solan understood about signals.
For nae sooner was the signal made than he let be the rope, spried his wings, squawked out loud, took a turn flying, and dashed straucht at Tam Dale’s een.
Tam had a knife, he gart the cauld steel glitter.
And it seemed the solan understood about knives, for nae suner did the steel glint in the sun than he gied the ae squawk, but laighter, like a body disappointit, and flegged aff about the roundness of the craig, and Tam saw him nae mair.
And as sune as that thing was gane, Tam’s heid drapt upon his shouther, and they pu’d him up like a deid corp, dadding on the craig.
A dram of brandy (which he went never without) broucht him to his mind, or what was left of it. Up he sat.
“Rin, Geordie, rin to the boat, mak’ sure of the boat, man—rin!” he cries, “or yon solan’ll have it awa’,” says he.
The fower lads stared at ither, an’ tried to whilly-wha him to be quiet.
But naething would satisfy Tam Dale, till ane o’ them had startit on aheid to stand sentry on the boat.
The ithers askit if he was for down again.
“Na,” says he, “and niether you nor me,” says he, “and as sune as I can win to stand on my twa feet we’ll be aff frae this craig o’ Sawtan.”
Sure eneuch, nae time was lost, and that was ower muckle; for before they won to North Berwick Tam was in a crying fever.
He lay a’ the simmer; and wha was sae kind as come speiring for him, but Tod Lapraik!
Folk thocht afterwards that ilka time Tod cam near the house the fever had worsened.
I kenna for that; but what I ken the best, that was the end of it.
It was about this time o’ the year; my grandfaither was out at the white fishing; and like a bairn, I but to gang wi’ him.
We had a grand take, I mind, and the way that the fish lay broucht us near in by the Bass, whaur we foregaithered wi’ anither boat that belanged to a man Sandie Fletcher in Castleton.
He’s no lang deid neither, or ye could speir at himsel’.
Weel, Sandie hailed.
“What’s yon on the Bass?” says he.
“On the Bass?” says grandfaither.
“Ay,” says Sandie, “on the green side o’t.”
“Whatten kind of a thing?” says grandfaither. “There cannae be naething on the Bass but just the sheep.”
“It looks unco like a body,” quo’ Sandie, who was nearer in.
“A body!” says we, and we none of us likit that.
For there was nae boat that could have brought a man, and the key o’ the prison yett hung ower my faither’s at hame in the press bed.
We keept the twa boats close for company, and crap in nearer hand.
Grandfaither had a gless, for he had been a sailor, and the captain of a smack, and had lost her on the sands of Tay.
And when we took the glass to it, sure eneuch there was a man.
He was in a crunkle o’ green brae, a wee below the chaipel, a’ by his lee lane, and lowped and flang and danced like a daft quean at a waddin’.
“It’s Tod,” says grandfather, and passed the gless to Sandie.
“Ay, it’s him,” says Sandie.
“Or ane in the likeness o’ him,” says grandfaither.
“Sma’ is the differ,” quo’ Sandie. “De’il or warlock, I’ll try the gun at him,” quo’ he, and broucht up a fowling-piece that he aye carried, for Sandie was a notable famous shot in all that country.
“Haud your hand, Sandie,” says grandfaither; “we maun see clearer first,” says he, “or this may be a dear day’s wark to the baith of us.”