Putting up the glasses, 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."
"Oh, they're a sturdy, 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 Dick 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 shoreward 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 shore abreast of us has better hiding-places, besides being nearer open sea."