“Jist that,” said he, throwing himself on a seat with an easy indifference meant to conceal his vanity. “Jist observation and a knack o' puttin' twa and twa thegether. Did ye think the skipper o' the Seven Sisters was fleein' over Scotland at the tail o' your horse?”
“The Greig mole's weel kent, surely,” said I, astonished and chagrined. “I jalouse it's notorious through my Uncle Andy?”
Risk laughed at that. “Oh, ay!” said he, “when Andy Greig girned at ye it was ill to miss seein' his mole. Man, ye might as well wear your name on the front o' your hat as gae aboot wi' a mole like that—and—and that pair o' shoes.”
The blood ran to my face at this further revelation of his astuteness. It seemed, then, I carried my identity head and foot, and it was no wonder a halfeyed man like Risk should so easily discover me. I looked down at my feet, and sure enough, when I thought of it now, it would have been a stupid man who, having seen these kenspeckle shoes once, would ever forget them.
“My uncle seems to have given me good introductions,” said I. “They struck mysel' as rather dandy for a ship,” broke in the mate, at last coming on something he could understand.
“And did you know Andy Greig, too?” said I. “Andy Greig,” he replied. “Not me!”
“Then, by God, ye hinna sailed muckle aboot the warld!” said the skipper. “I hae seen thae shoes in the four quarters and aye in a good companionship.”
“They appear yet to retain that virtue,” said I, unable to resist the irony. “And, by the way, Captain Risk, now that we have discussed the shoes and my mole, what have we been waiting for at Blackness?”
His face grew black with annoyance.
“What's that to you?” he cried.