y (tolling a doleful benediction), past Rothesay Bay,
with the misty Kyles beyond. The Garroch Head, with a cluster of Clyde
Trust Hoppers, glides abaft the beam, and the blue Cock o' Arran shows
up across the opening water. All is haste and bustle. Aloft,
spider-like figures, black against the tracery of the rigging, cast
down sheets and clew lines in the one place where they must go. Shouts
and hails--"Fore cross-trees, there! Royal buntline inside th'
crin'line, _in_-side, damn ye!"

"Aye, aye! Stan' fr' under!"

..._rrup_! A coil of rope hurtling from a height comes rattling to the
rail, to be secured to its own particular belaying-pin. Out of a
seeming chaos comes order. Every rope has its name and its place and
its purpose; and though we have 'sodjers' among us, before Arran is
astern we are ready to take to the wind. Off Pladda we set staysails
and steer to the westward, and, when the wind allows, hoist topsails
and crowd the canvas on her. The short November day has run its course
when we cast off the tow-rope. As we pass the standing tug, all her
hands are hauling the hawser aboard. Soon she comes tearing in our
wake to take our last letters ashore and to receive the Captain's
'blessing.' A heaving-line is thrown aboard, and into a small oilskin
bag are put our hastily written messages and the Captain's material
'blessing.' Shades of Romance! Our last link with civilisation
severed by a bottle of Hennessy's Three Star!

The tugmen (after satisfying themselves as to the contents of the bag)
give us a cheer and a few parting 'skreichs' on their siren and,
turning quickly, make off to a Norwegian barque, lying-to, off Ailsa
Craig.

All hands, under the Mates, are hard driven, sweating on sheet and
halyard to make the most of the light breeze. At the wheel I have
little to do; she is steering easily, asking no more than a spoke or
two, when the Atlantic swell, running under, lifts her to the wind.
Ahead of us a few trawlers are standing out to the Skerryvore Banks.
Broad to the North, the rugged, mist-capped Mull of Cantyre looms up
across the heaving water. The breeze is steady, but a falling
barometer tells of wind or mist ere morning.

Darkness falls, and coast lights show up in all airts. Forward, all
hands are putting a last drag on the topsail halyards, and the voice of
the nigger tells of the fortunes of--

'_Renzo--boys, Renzo!_'

II

STEERSMANSHIP

Wee Laughlin, dism