He was evidently admiring the scene presented by the quiet bay of
Stromness.

A barque lay at anchor in the harbour, her tall, tapering masts and
taut ropes clearly defined against the gray sky. Beyond the bright
beacon light of the Ness, the sloping island of Graemsay could
barely be distinguished from the deep purple mountains of Hoy, and
along the line of the bay stood the gabled houses of the town,
their dimly-lighted windows reflected on the water.

As I approached the stranger, I saw that he was a seafarer.

"Fine night, sir," I said in salutation as I passed him.

"Ay, very fine. What way is the wind, my lad?"

"Sou'-sou'-west," I replied, looking up at a few flecks of white
cloud in the clear sky.

"Are you going on to Stromness? If so, I will walk along with you.
That's a fine bird you're carrying. What do you call it?"

"A hen harrier, sir. My dog caught it over on the moor. Is that
your barque lying in the bay, sir, the Lydia?"

"Ay; she's a rakish craft, isn't she? We're sailing again in the
morning for South America. Do you think we shall have a fair wind,
my lad?"

"Yes, if it does not veer round too much to the westward."