Johnstone of the Border

"Yes; if I could see Dick starting well as the owner of Appleyard, and, better still, safely married, I'd go away again."

"What do you mean by 'safely married'?"

"I think you know. He's such a good sort, and a girl who understood him and was patient with his failings would soon help him to get rid of them. She'd make the most of his good points, and Dick has talents – "

"Are there girls like that?"

"Yes," said Andrew, firmly; "I am quite sure that I know one."

Elsie gave him a curious glance.

"But you're only thinking of Dick. What about yourself?"

"Oh," he said with a brave effort to be cheerful, "I don't count for much. I've no money and no particular ability beyond being able to sail a boat. Still, I have the sea and I'm fond of wandering. It's a pretty good old world, after all, and if you keep an open mind, you make friends wherever you go."

"But it must hurt to leave the old ones."

"Yes," he agreed with a hint of strain; "it hurts very much. But you never leave them altogether. Things change, of course, but you can come back if you are wanted."

He left her rather abruptly, and Elsie dropped her work and sat looking into the fire, a curious, gentle smile on her face. Andrew was true to the core; he would never seek his own advantage when it conflicted with his loyalty to his friends. Now he was willing to sacrifice himself for Dick; though perhaps his poverty influenced him, too. Still, he should see – Elsie resolutely picked up her knitting. She must not indulge in disturbing thoughts like these – and the belts must be finished. Shivering men, worn with stern fighting in Flanders, needed them.

CHAPTER XXIV

THE BUOYED CHANNEL

A bitter east wind was blowing through light mist, though the moon was in the sky, when Andrew came out of a little shop in a lonely village near the Galloway coast. He carried a basket of provisions and wore a thick jersey and oilskins, but he shivered as he looked down the street. It was empty, and dark except for a faint yellow glow here and there in the windows of the small, white houses that rose abruptly from the rough pavement.

"Dick's a long time in getting the eggs," he said to Whitney.

"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 Dick came up with a man who wore an oilskin cap and jersey. Dick was awkwardly holding a big paper bag.

"It's no' a good night," said the seaman. "I wouldna' say but we might have a shift 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 Dick 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 Dick what had kept him.

"The eggs," Dick 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 unshipped 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, Dick?"

"I don't know. He told me he had a boat at the burnfoot, but the fishing 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.

"The buoy's not on a lobster creel or we'd have pulled it up. I wonder what depth there is?"

He pushed down the double-ended paddle, which, as used in shooting punts, is about nine feet long, and touched bottom when it was wet half-way up. Then he held the blade against the stream until the punt sheered across the channel, dragging the line with her, when he tried again. This time he could not find bottom.

"It looks as if the corks are meant to mark a corner of the bank," he said. "In a way, that's curious, because fishermen don't often bother about a buoy. They know the ground and are satisfied with sounding with an oar."

Andrew began to bail her out, and Whitney and Dick sat on the after deck while he caught the water which ran toward them in the bailing can.

"What about the geese?" Whitney asked.

"The man mentioned bernicle and I'd expect to find them on the outer end of the flat, because it's soft ground and bernicle get their food in the mud. Besides, I'd like to see how this channel runs as the sands dry; there's more water than I thought. Suppose we leave the punt and walk down the edge? As it's lower than the top of the bank, we'd be out of sight."

"I'll stay in the punt," said Dick. "I'm not fond of crawling through soft mud. Then, if you put up some birds, they'll probably fly over me."

They paddled ashore and left him with the punt, Andrew showing him two small rollers, which would help him to launch her if he wished to come after them. The sand was soft and made a sucking noise about their sea-boots, but this was the only sound except the faint ripple of the tide. The shore was hidden and there was nothing visible beyond the stretch of sloppy flat that vanished into the mist. The haze, however, was not thick, and faint moonlight filtered through.

"What do you expect to find here?" Whitney asked.