Part 16 (1/2)

Andrew frowned as he looked about.

”She's right off her course, but it's too deep to anchor, and the bottom's foul near the beach,” he said. ”We must let her drift until the ebb sets in and carries her down along the opposite sh.o.r.e. We ought to make Ramsey on the next flood.”

”At four or five o'clock in the morning!” d.i.c.k grumbled. ”Well, I'm glad I'm no use at the helm in the dark, and we may get a few hours'

smooth water before we round the Burrow Head. At present I'm wondering why I came.”

”There's some water in the bilge, and it's your turn to pump,” Whitney remarked.

”If she was half full, I wouldn't pump until this rolling stops,” d.i.c.k said firmly.

The sea got smoother as they drifted along the coast, and presently ran in faint undulations that gleamed like oil where their surface caught the light. The days, however, were getting short, and soon the long tongue of land across the bay cut low and black against the sunset. The hills to the eastward were gray and dim, a heavy dew began to fall, and a pale half-moon came out. Now and then a puff of wind from the south rippled the gla.s.sy water and drove the yacht farther up the bay.

When an inlet began to open out ahead d.i.c.k took up the gla.s.ses.

”We ought to find water enough across the sands to Gatehouse,” he said. ”I'd a good deal rather sleep ash.o.r.e and we'd get a much better meal at the Murray Arms than Whitney can cook.”

”We can't get ash.o.r.e without a breeze,” Andrew replied.

”There's somebody going up. I can see a lugsail boat beyond the point.”

Andrew took the gla.s.ses from him. The light had nearly gone and mist hung about the sh.o.r.e, but a belt of water shone with a pale gleam, against which a distant boat stood out sharply.

”She looks like one of the Annan whammelers; they use a sail with a shorter head in the West, but I can't see what an Annan man would be doing here.”

Putting up the gla.s.ses, he thoughtfully filled his pipe.

”The night our lamp went out on Mersehead sands,” Whitney said, ”I saw a lugsail boat. What kind of fellows are the whammelers?”

”Unusually good seamen. The boats are small, but they turn out in very wild weather when the salmon are about.”

”That was not what I meant.”

”Oh, they're a st.u.r.dy, honest lot; but you don't often find a set of men that doesn't include a wastrel.”

Soon a white light and a green one twinkled some distance behind the yacht, and d.i.c.k called attention to it.

”That steamer's moving slowly,” he said.

”A trawler, I expect. She's probably waiting until it's dark, when she'll put her lights out and drop her net. I understand the Fishery Board forbid trawling here.”

They said nothing further, and the _Rowan_ drifted sh.o.r.eward with an eddy of the tide, which had begun to turn. The moon was half obscured by haze, but they could see a wall of cliff to starboard with a narrow line of surf at its foot. Part of the wall seemed detached from the rest and Andrew explained it to Whitney.

”That's Barennan Island. This strip of coast was a favorite haunt of Dirk Hatteraik's, but tradition locates his cove at Ravenshall, across the inlet yonder. It might have been convenient for running contraband up the Cree and Fleet, but the sh.o.r.e abreast of us has better hiding-places, besides being nearer open sea.”

”Dirk's been dead a long time, and has no successors in the business,”

d.i.c.k interposed. ”His men probably were more ruffianly than romantic, but they must have given the neighborhood an interest, with their signal fires, their vessels running in at dark, and their pack-horses winding through the moors-- The trawler's gone!”

”Impossible,” Andrew said quietly. ”She hasn't had time to steam farther than we could see her lights.”

”Then she's put them out. Perhaps the net's over.”