Part 13 (1/2)
d.i.c.k made some coffee and when it was on the table Whitney was glad to lean back on a locker and light his pipe. With two candle lamps burning, the narrow cabin looked very snug and cheerful after the desolate sands, and it was something to see Andrew sitting opposite, safe but thoughtful.
”Did you trim the lamp properly?” d.i.c.k asked, puzzled.
”Of course,” said Andrew, with a touch of dryness. ”That's something I don't often neglect. Mixed the oil myself--colza and a dash of paraffin; and the lamp's the best I could get in Glasgow. Suppose you bring it down.”
d.i.c.k did so, and Andrew took off the oil-container, which was nearly full, and examined the burner. There was nothing wrong, and Whitney noted the good workmans.h.i.+p of the fittings.
”It couldn't go out,” he said decidedly.
”That,” Andrew replied, frowning, ”is my opinion; but as I came down to the gutter I saw only two rows of footsteps, and you made those in coming and going back to the dinghy. I can't say there wasn't another track, because the light was faint so far from the boat; but we might look about the deck and cabin-top to see if anybody has been on board.”
”I'm afraid I mussed that all up with sand,” Whitney pointed out.
”But who'd want to come on board?” d.i.c.k asked. ”Theft could be the only object, and we'll soon find out about that.”
They looked round the cabin, but missed nothing.
”A thief wouldn't have put out the light, because he'd know that might bring us back before he got away,” d.i.c.k elucidated; then turned to Whitney. ”What do you think?”
”Well,” said Whitney, smiling. ”I've only one suggestion and it's rather far-fetched. The thing might have been a plot to make us lose the boat or, perhaps, make an end of us. If that's so, it nearly succeeded.”
”Rot!” exclaimed Andrew. ”n.o.body would be twopence the richer for putting me out of the way.”
”And I haven't an enemy in the world--unless it's myself,” d.i.c.k grinned. ”I don't count the Kaiser, because the bad feeling's patriotic; I've nothing personal against him.”
Andrew made a sign of impatience, and Whitney, watching him closely, thought he felt disturbed.
”Did you see anybody on the bank?”
”No,” Whitney answered. ”I saw a small sail; a lugsail, I think, because it was long on the head. It looked very black.”
”Tanned with blacklead and oil; one of the Annan whammel boats, most likely. They drag a net for salmon, but wouldn't get any just now, as the water's too smooth.”
”Then why were they out?”
”After flounders, perhaps. But none of the Annan men would meddle with our light. However, we'd better make a start if we mean to reach Rough Firth this tide.”
”Now and then I'm glad I'm not much of a seaman,” d.i.c.k laughed. ”As I'd probably pull the wrong string, I'll stay below and smoke.”
A cold east wind was blowing when Whitney went on deck, and after hoisting sail they crept away against the tide. Whitney sounded with the pole until he could no longer touch bottom, when Andrew seemed satisfied. It was very dark, but two quivering beams pierced the gloom.
”Get the topsail down,” Andrew ordered after a while. ”We'll find the stream that fills Rough Firth in a few minutes and it will take us up fast enough.”
This proved correct, for shortly afterward the sea broke about them in confused eddies, and the boat splashed and lurched as she crossed the troubled s.p.a.ce that divided the tides. Then she forged ahead very fast, and blurred hills and shadowy cliffs soon loomed out. Whitney used the sounding pole again, the cliffs grew plainer, and when the land closed in on them, they dropped anchor. She brought up and, after helping to stow the canvas, Whitney climbed into his folding cot.
For a time he did not sleep but lay thinking about the extinguished light. It seemed impossible that the lamp should have gone out accidentally, and he was not satisfied that the explanation he had humorously offered was altogether absurd. His friends had had another narrow escape not long before, and it might be significant that although they were together on both occasions, Andrew had run the greater risk. Whitney admitted that this might be coincidence and he must not let his imagination run away with him. One must use sense and not wrap up in romantic mystery a matter that might be perfectly simple. For all that, he meant to seize any clue that chance might offer him.
Next morning they landed and joined Murray at a village among the hills. They spent the day upon the heather, working inland across broad, gra.s.sy s.p.a.ces and red moors where the sheep fled before them, and then climbed a line of rugged hills. These were not high, but Whitney found them romantically interesting as he scrambled among black peat-hags where the wild cotton grew, up marshy ravines, and past great granite boulders. Stopping now and then to get his breath, he watched the line of small figures stretched out across the waste and thought that n.o.body lurking among the stones and heather could escape. Still, when the different detachments met upon a windy summit, none of them had seen anything suspicious.