They put in at Peterhead, purchased a few provisions,
and again set sail.
And now it seemed to Malcolm that he must soon come
to a conclusion as to the steps he must take when
he reached London. But think as he would, he
could plan nothing beyond finding out where his sister
lived, going to look at the house, and getting into
it if he might. Nor could his companion help
him with any suggestions, and indeed he could not
talk much with him because of the presence of Davy,
a rough, round eyed, red haired young Scot, of the
dull invaluable class that can only do what they are
told, but do that to the extent of their faculty.
They knew all the coast as far as the Frith of Forth;
after that they had to be more careful. They
had no charts on board, nor could have made much use
of any. But the wind continued favourable, and
the weather cold, bright, and full of life. They
spoke many coasters on their way, and received many
directions.
Off the Nore they had rough weather, and had to stand
off and on for a day and a night till it moderated.
Then they spoke a fishing boat, took a pilot on board,
and were soon in smooth water. More and more
they wondered as the channel narrowed, and ended their
voyage at length below London Bridge, in a very jungle
of masts.
Leaving Davy to keep the sloop, the two fishermen
went on shore. Passing from the narrow precincts
of the river, they found themselves at once in the
roar of London city. Stunned at first, then excited,
then bewildered, then dazed, without plan to guide
their steps, they wandered about until, unused to
the hard stones, their feet ached. It was a dull
day in March. A keen wind blew round the corners
of the streets. They wished themselves at sea
again.
“Sic a sicht o’ fowk!” said Blue
Peter.
“It’s hard to think,” rejoined Malcolm,
“what w’y the God ’at made them
can luik efter them a’ in sic a tumult.
But they say even the sheep dog kens ilk sheep i’
the flock ’at ’s gien him in chairge.”
“Ay, but ye see,” said Blue Peter, “they’re
mair like a shoal o’ herrin’ nor a flock
o’ sheep.”
“It’s no the num’er o’ them
’at plagues me,” said Malcolm. “The
gran’ diffeeculty is hoo He can lat ilk ane tak’
his ain gait an’ yet luik efter them a’.
But gien He does’t, it stan’s to rizzon
it maun be in some w’y ’at them ’at’s
sae luikit efter canna by ony possibeelity un’erstan’.”
“That’s trowth, I’m thinkin’.
We maun jist gi’e up an’ confess there’s
things abune a’ human comprehension.”
“Wha kens but that maybe ‘cause i’
their verra natur’ they’re ower semple
for cr’aturs like hiz ‘at’s made
sae mixed-like, an’ see sae little intill the
hert o’ things?”
“Ye’re ayont me there,” said Blue
Peter, and a silence followed.
It was a conversation very unsuitable to London Streets—but
then these were raw Scotch fisherman, who had not yet
learned how absurd it is to suppose ourselves come
from anything greater than ourselves, and had no conception
of the liberty it confers on a man to know that he
is the child of a protoplasm, or something still more
beautifully small.
