'Dear me, this isn't half so exciting as I expected,' said Marjorie to herself. 'What stupid grown-up things they are talking about; I am sure they wouldn't be interested if I were to tell them about the things we do, riding bare-backed ponies, and about the Craft and the Den, and finding the smugglers; and I have nothing else to talk to them about. They haven't taken much notice of Tricksy and me after all; they weren't a bit surprised when they saw us; we're pretty, but not any prettier than lots of other girls, and it isn't enough to make a fuss about.'
She wondered what Tricksy was finding to say to Lieutenant Jones, the young officer by whose side she was sitting, and who appeared to be greatly entertained by the little girl.
After lunch they returned on deck to see a boat bring the boys on board; then the screw was set in motion and the water began to churn itself into foam round the vessel's sides.
'It isn't bad,' said Marjorie to herself as the Heroic ploughed her way past the well-known shores, 'but it's a bother not having anything to do. I've seen all this before, and it isn't as though we were rowing for all we were worth in the old Mermaid—I mean, the Craft—and in danger of getting into currents and being swept away to I don't know where. Now I have no doubt the boys are having no end of a good time, going into the engine-room and getting themselves dirty, and climbing all over the place, and listening to the sailors' yarns. Once I get out of this, catch me bother any more about looking nice, and being grown-up, and all the rest of it—it will be time enough when I'm so old that I get no fun out of being a tomboy any more.'
Lieutenant Jones left Tricksy and came to sit beside Marjorie for a turn.
'I suppose you are quite accustomed to sailing as you live in an island, Miss MacGregor?' he said.
'Yes,' replied Marjorie, 'we are all very fond of boating, the boys and Tricksy and I,' and after talking for a little while she began to think that a grown-up man was nearly as good company as a boy once you got him upon the right subject.
'Now,' said the Sheriff, coming up with his spy-glass, 'we are coming near the finest bit of rock scenery on the island; one of the finest, in my opinion, on this part of the West Coast.'
The Heroic was just rounding the point which concealed the Smugglers' Caves from view.
'The Corrachin Crags,' continued the Sheriff; 'the caves are remarkably fine; interesting, too, as in former times they are said to have been used for smuggling purposes, and as hiding-places for pirates and other lawless characters——'