Part 46 (1/2)

”Did you keep the letter?”

”Na,” said Marshall; ”I pit it in the fire.”

Andrew nodded.

”Then I suppose you understand what you are to do.”

”I'm to try the net-fis.h.i.+ng for flounders and keep my een open, though it's no' just the season the flatfish come up on the banks. They telt me, at the clachan, there were verra few to be had; but I allooed they couldna' be scarcer than Loch Ryan herring.”

”He's got it right,” Whitney laughed. ”Come along and take your net.

You'll have to carry it up the bank; the dinghy's loaded deep and the tide's still running out.”

When they had dragged the net ash.o.r.e, Marshall lighted a lantern and examined it carefully. Whitney, picking up the light, turned it on the fisherman's wrinkled face and was not surprised to see a twinkle in his eyes.

”What do you think of it?” he asked.

”It's gran' gear, but maybe, a bit heavy for flounders. I wouldna' say but the heid-rope would haud a shark.”

”It's better to be on the safe side,” Whitney said with a laugh. ”When you set a net you can't tell what you're going to catch. That's why we brought you some iron pipes for the posts. Now you'd better show us where you want the net put up.”

They went back and pushed off the dinghy while Marshall plodded up the bank abreast of them with the net on his shoulder. At a bend of the narrowing channel he hailed them.

”She'll do here--though I dinna' ken aboot the fishery board,” he said, when they landed and gave him the iron posts. ”Ye're no allooed to stop a through-running watter.”

”I'll be responsible for that,” Andrew told him.

”Then it would be a kind o' pity to leave yon gutter open,” suggested Marshall, turning to Whitney. ”A flounder-net in a runway only fishes on the ebb. Ye haul her up to the heid-rope when the fish come in with the flood, and let her doon when high-watter's past. Then a' that's gone by her canna' get back. Onyway, yon's the usual plan, but she'd maybe fish better here if we keepit her doon with lead and pulled her up afterwards wi' a heid-rope tackle.”

”I was going to suggest something of the kind,” Andrew said. ”You'll want a boat, but there are two or three old punts on the beach. Hire whichever you like and I'll be accountable. But what about the trawler fellow who keeps the boat at the point?”

”They telt me he's awa' doon west.”

”Good. You can begin to put up your stakes, using the pipe. We have another job to look after, but we'll come back when it's done.”

Whitney shoved the dinghy off and they paddled up the channel. It was very dark and the rain made the obscurity worse, but Andrew searched one bank carefully as the dinghy crept along its edge. Everything was quiet, for there seemed to be no birds about, but they could hear the thud of Marshall's hammer as he drove in the pipes. Whitney, sitting aft, felt damp and cold as the water trickled down his oilskins.

”How much do you think the old fellow suspects?” he asked.

”I can't tell. He suspects something, and I didn't try to put him off the track. There were one or two reasons for thinking I'd better not.

Anyway, he's to be trusted. Where's that corner buoy?”

Whitney laughed.

”If you were anybody else, I'd wager you wouldn't find it on a night like this. You don't know it was on a corner, to begin with.”

”Well,” Andrew said, ”I'm pretty confident about hitting it in the next few minutes.”

He pulled on steadily, while the rain ran down his face and trickled from the dinghy's thwarts. The bank was scarcely distinguishable a few yards away, but the water had not the opaque blackness of the sand, and Whitney scanned its surface narrowly. There was not a ripple, for the stream was slackening, and the channel was smooth as oil except for the disturbance the dinghy made. The water she displaced lapped upon the sand astern, but there was nothing on the narrow dark strip ahead.

”You haven't made a center shot this time,” he said presently.