"Ye do not ken McGilp to be speaking that way," said he, and his voice was hoarse as a raven's croak. "We could not have run a cargo last night wi' the sea like a boiling pot; and if the Gull had anchored off the Rhu Ban Cove there would be plenty to be wondering why she was there. No, no, my lad; there's sailor men on the Gull, and a wee thing will not frighten them. She just ran before it, man, and she's standing off and on till the night."
And so it proved, for that night McGilp himself was rowed ashore, and his eyes were red as a rabbit's wi' the lashing o' the sea, and the white salt was dried on his beard.
With him was McNeilage, his mate, his face red and shining like a well-fed minister, and the drink to his thrapple.
"A great night last night," said he. "Och, a night like the old roaring times when every ship on God's seven seas was a fortune for the lifting."
We were on the shore at the Rhu Ban, working and toiling at the cargo with the oars muffled, and no man speaking above his breath, and when we had the cargo in the coves, and the seaweed and trash from the shore concealing it, we made our way to the outhouse where McKelvie's lass had waited, for there were friends of the dead Laird's in the house, and new men are hard to trust in the smuggling. And at the outhouse I spoke to fierce Ronny McKinnon as he stood among the crew.
"Ronny," said I, "there was a bonny lass putting herself about for ye, or ye might have been listening to mice cheeping instead o' the waves out there."
"I've been in many's the ploy," says Ronny, "and the lassies liked me well enough, except just one."
"Would her name be Mirren now?" said I.
"I'll no' say but it might just be that," says Ronny, with a thinking look in his eyes.
"There was a lass o' that name, on a Hielan' pony, met Dan and me at Bothanairidh the day before the snow," says I. "She talked about ye for a while."