“Agreed,” said his companions.
“Iss it goin’ back you’ll be?” asked the skipper.
“Yes. Don’t you think we may as well turn now?” said Mabberly, who made it a point always, if possible, to carry the approbation of the skipper with him.
“I think it wass petter if we had niver come oot.”
“Why so, Captain?”
“Because it’s comin’ on to plow. Putt her roond, Shames.”
James McGregor, to whom the order was given, and who was the other man of the crew, obeyed. The yacht, which had latterly been beating against a headwind, now ran gaily before it towards the Scottish coast, but when night closed in no outlying islands were visible.
“We wull hev to keep a sharp look-oot, Shames,” remarked the skipper, as he stopped in his monotonous perambulation of the deck to glance at the compass.
“Oo, ay,” responded McGregor, with the air of a man who knew that as well as his superior.
“What do you fear?” asked Mabberly, coming on deck at the moment to take a look at the night before turning in.