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."

"What's that light ash.o.r.e?" Whitney asked.

A twinkling flash appeared on the high, black cliff behind the island and went out, but after a moment or two flickered up again and, growing brighter, burned for a time.

"It looks as if the smugglers weren't quite extinct," Whitney remarked.

Andrew made no comment, but when a cool breeze came off the land he edged the boat closer to the beach. It showed as a gray blur beneath the crag, hardly distinguishable except for the white fringe of surf.

"I'm curious about that light," he admitted. "I'd have said it was somebody baiting a long-line or looking for lobsters, only that the fellow wouldn't have waited for high-water. Then, it was too brilliant for a lantern."

"Let's go ash.o.r.e, Whitney," suggested d.i.c.k, antic.i.p.ating adventure of some kind.

"All right," Andrew replied. "Scull in instead of rowing: it's quieter. And take the small cask and ask if there's a spring about if you meet anybody."

Whitney launched the light dinghy and put an oar in the sculling notch when d.i.c.k joined him. The swell looked higher than it had appeared from the yacht, and as he heard it tumbling among the stones he wondered how they were to land. Besides, it was difficult to keep the lurching craft on a straight course. He stopped sculling when a weedy ledge of rock with a white wash running over it appeared in the gloom.

"Go on," said d.i.c.k. "Keep the reef to starboard. There's a cove. I've been here before."

Swinging past the ledge as an undulation rolled in, they were met by its broken recoil; but Whitney drove the craft through this, and a few moments later ran her on to a narrow beach. Quietly lifting the boat beyond the reach of the water, they made for the cliff. After a few yards they came to large, rough stones, and d.i.c.k stopped. Everything was quiet except for the splash of the surf, and the wall of rock rose above them, black and mysterious.

"We couldn't see anybody against that background," he said in a low voice; "and it's difficult to move quietly among these stones. I think we'll try the crag."

It took them longer to reach it than Whitney expected, but presently d.i.c.k stopped in front of a ma.s.s of fallen rock.

"Follow me close; the path isn't good," he said.

They went up carefully, feeling for a foothold among the stones, until they came to a ledge that ran upward across the face of the cliff.

Whitney could see nothing below him, but he followed d.i.c.k, and after a while they reached a ravine filled with tangled gra.s.s and heath, which led them to the summit. Here they lay down behind a whinn bush and then Whitney understood why his companion had chosen the position. The moon was hidden, but the sea reflected an elusive light that distinguished it from the blackness of the land. Anybody moving along the beach would show against the glimmer of the water. Whitney could not see the _Rowan_, but Andrew had, no doubt, steered a course that would bring the island behind her canvas. It was, of course, possible that their landing had been noticed; but the dinghy was very small and the dull roar of the surf would have drowned the noise they made.

Turning quietly, Whitney looked inland across high, rolling ground. It was all obscure, but in the hollows there were gray patches, which he supposed were belts of mist, and two or three dim lights twinkled in the distance. Now and then a bleating of sheep and the whistle of a curlew came down the cold wind. There was nothing to rouse suspicion, and Whitney began to think of going back. Just then d.i.c.k touched him.

A shadowy figure showed against the water a short distance from where they had landed, and then a flickering beam of light fell upon the sea. It was too bright for an ordinary lantern, and Whitney could not see where it came from, but after a moment or two it was abruptly cut off.

"There's another cove behind the point and I think I know a way down,"

d.i.c.k whispered. "Come on as quickly as you can!"

The figure vanished, but as the light was obviously a signal, it was worth an effort to learn something about the men who had made it. When Whitney got on his feet, d.i.c.k had already started. They turned down the landward slope of the crag, where they stumbled among p.r.i.c.kly whinns and long heather. In a few minutes, d.i.c.k was breathing hard, but he kept up the pace, and they presently came to a ravine that seamed the front of the cliff. It looked dangerously steep and there was no evidence of a path, but d.i.c.k went down, following a runlet of water, and now and again catching at the gra.s.s and stones to check his descent. Whitney, following as closely as he could, hoped that the ravine did not end in a precipice.

They came to one steep drop, and at the bottom of it Whitney stumbled into a hole among the stones. When he got up, d.i.c.k was some distance below him, but he could distinguish his figure against the sea. No sound but the growl of the surf reached them; but this was loud enough to drown any footsteps on the beach and cover their rather noisy descent. Whitney reached the edge of the pool where the runlet of water widened, and was looking for a way across it when he saw d.i.c.k stagger. He swayed in a curious way, as if trying to recover his balance, and then suddenly disappeared. Whitney splashed through the water and came to the edge of a very steep slope. He could not see the bottom, but he scrambled down, clinging to the stones; and after sliding the last few yards he found himself on the beach. d.i.c.k lay motionless on a slab of rock near by.

"Are you badly hurt?" he asked, breathlessly.

"No," d.i.c.k said faintly. "Leave me alone a while."

Whitney sat down beside him, feeling alarmed. The dinghy was some distance off, and he did not know whether it could be reached by the beach. It would be impossible to carry d.i.c.k across the rough stones without help; the _Rowan_ was too far off for Andrew to hear a call; and he did not want to leave the boy, who might be seriously injured.

"Do you feel better?" Whitney asked presently.