CHAPTER XII.
THE STORMY PETREL "They hadna sailed a league, a league, A league, but barely three, When the lift grew dark, and the wind grew high, And gurly grew the sea." SIR PATRICK SPENS.
"Hilloa!" exclaimed the skipper with a sudden start, next morning, as he saw Eric's recumbent figure on the ratlin-stuff, "Who be this young varmint!" "Oh, I brought him aboord last night," said Davey; "he wanted to be cabun-buoy." "Precious like un _he_ looks.

Never mind, we've got him and we'll use him." The vessel was under way when Eric woke, and collected his scattered thoughts to a remembrance of his new position.

At first, as the Stormy Petrel dashed its way gallantly through the blue sea, he felt one absorbing sense of joy to have escaped from Roslyn.

But before he had been three hours on board, his eyes were opened to the trying nature of his circumstances, which were, indeed, _so_ trying that _anything_ in the world seemed preferable to enduring them.

He had not been three hours on board when he would have given everything in his power to be back again; but such regrets were useless, for the vessel was now fairly on her way for Corunna, where she was to take in a cargo of cattle.
There were eight men belonging to the crew; and as the ship was only a little trading schooner, these were sailors of the lowest and meanest grade.