"She'll soon float, and the tide's not running very fast."
They sat in the cockpit to wait, and the noise the current made as it swirled round her died away. She was not quite afloat, however, and Whitney was picking up the boathook when a flicker of light shone through the fog. He raised his hand in warning to Andrew, and both saw the faint gleam go out.
Then a splashing sound grew louder, and a dim gray object drove toward them. Whitney knew it was a lugsail boat beating up the Firth, and he saw that she would pass at a few yards' distance if she stood on. So far, he did not think they had been seen, for the Rowan's hull was low, and she had no sail set. While he waited in suspense he heard the splash of an oar as somebody sounded.
"No' quite a fathom. Doon helm, Jock," said a hoarse voice.
There was a flutter of canvas, and the boat, swinging round, vanished on the other tack.
"What are we going to do?" Whitney asked.
"Anchor as soon as they're far enough off not to hear our chain."
Andrew sculled the Rowan into the channel, and presently dropped the anchor. When she brought up, he went below and lighted the lamp.
"They didn't see us, but I won't want to follow them up the Firth," he explained. "Their boat can cross the flats before we can, and when we landed they'd all have gone. Besides, it might look suspicious if we came up soon afterward. I think we'll wait for daylight."
Whitney put the kettle on the stove and lighted his pipe.