Part 41 (1/2)

”That's so; we've been 'most half an hour buying the few things you wanted. He's probably talking to somebody. Making friends with strangers is a way he has, particularly when he knows we're waiting.”

”I could suggest another explanation,” Andrew replied.

He looked round at a clatter of heavy boots and saw two dark figures against a square of light. Then a door was shut and d.i.c.k came up with a man who wore an oilskin cap and jersey. d.i.c.k was awkwardly holding a big paper bag.

”It's no' a good night,” said the seaman. ”I wouldna' say but we might have a s.h.i.+ft o' wind before long. They're telling me ye have brought up in the west bay.”

”For the night,” said Andrew. ”It's an exposed place.”

”It's a' that. If the wind comes from the south'ard, it will take good ground-tackle to hold ye.”

”What about the burnfoot gutter?”

”It's snug enough, but ye might have to stop a week. Ye canna' beat oot when there's any sea running on the sands.”

”Are there any geese about?”

”Weel, I did see two or three bernicle, a week ago; but if it's shooting ye want, ye'll have to gang doon west. The geese have moved on, but I hear the duck are throng on the flats roon Deefoot, behind the Ross.”

Andrew said nothing. He had picked up d.i.c.k at Kirkcudbright on the Dee, but had not seen a duck about the river mouth. It seemed that the man had learned that they came from the head of Solway, but did not know they were then returning from the west. He left them at the end of the village and Andrew then asked d.i.c.k what had kept him.

”The eggs,” d.i.c.k grinned. ”Jim insisted on them and I didn't want to disappoint him, though they're scarce just now. I should advise him to take them before they smash; I'm not clever at carrying eggs in a paper bag.”

”Where did you get them?” Whitney asked as he took the bag.

”Where do you think? When you're in doubt in a Scotch clachan, it's safe to try the change-house.”

”I suppose that means the saloon,” said Whitney. ”Well, I suspected something of the kind.”

Leaving the road outside the village, they struck across some wet fields and came to a marsh, through which a muddy creek wound crookedly. After jumping deep drains and floundering through rushes, they reached a steep bank of gravel, with a cut where the creek made its way to the sea. A mooring buoy floated in the channel; and across the channel lay a waste of sand, dotted with shallow pools. This ran seaward until it was lost in the haze.

An old shooting punt that Andrew had repaired lay upon the gravel and they dragged her down. As she was larger than usual and the big gun had been uns.h.i.+pped for the voyage, she would carry them all; though her shallow hull was deep in the water and the yacht some distance off. They had brought their ordinary shoulder guns on the chance of getting a shot at geese or duck. The village was about a mile away, and the spot looked strangely desolate; although a raised causeway, lined by stunted thorns, that ran back into the mist, seemed to suggest that a road came down to the sands across the creek.

Andrew took the long paddle when they pushed off, and the tide carried them away between muddy banks veined with tiny rivulets of water. In coming, soon after high tide, they had crossed the sands, following the line of beach, but now they must head seaward until they could round the end of the projecting shoal. Soon the banks got lower and the riband of water widened; and then a tall upright branch rose ahead of them.

”That perch is new since I was here last,” Andrew remarked. ”Who was the fellow you were talking to, d.i.c.k?”

”I don't know. He told me he had a boat at the burnfoot, but the fis.h.i.+ng wasn't good.”

They drifted on until a strong ripple broke the surface ahead. A small black object tossed in the disturbed patch.

”What's that?” asked Whitney. ”Looks like a lobster trap.”

”Lobsters prefer stones,” said Andrew. ”I don't think there are any here, but we'll see, if you get hold of the buoy. Anyhow, it will let me stop paddling and throw some water out.”

He headed across the channel, and Whitney, crouching on deck, seized the ring of corks. The punt swung round sharply with her bow to the stream and there was an angry splash against her planks. Whitney was glad to ease the strain on his arms by making fast the wet line.

”The tide's running strong,” he said.

Andrew nodded.