ned to cast a wary fly over him. I knew
roughly the _Tobermory's_ course--through the Sound of Islay to
Colonsay; then up the east side of Mull to Oban; then through the Sound
of Mull to the islands with names like cocktails, Rum and Eigg and
Coll; then to Skye; and then for the Outer Hebrides. I thought the last
would be the place, and it seemed madness to leave the boat, for the
Lord knew how I should get across the Minch. This consideration upset
all my plans again, and I fell into a troubled sleep without coming to
any conclusion.

Morning found us nosing between Jura and Islay, and about midday we
touched at a little port, where we unloaded some cargo and took on a
couple of shepherds who were going to Colonsay. The mellow afternoon
and the good smell of salt and heather got rid of the dregs of my
queasiness, and I spent a profitable hour on the pier-head with a
guide-book called _Baddely's Scotland_, and one of Bartholomew's maps.
I was beginning to think that Amos might be able to tell me something,
for a talk with the captain had suggested that the _Tobermory_ would
not dally long in the neighbourhood of Rum and Eigg. The big droving
season was scarcely on yet, and sheep for the Oban market would be
lifted on the return journey. In that case Skye was the first place to
watch, and if I could get wind of any big cargo waiting there I would
be able to make a plan. Amos was somewhere near the Kyle, and that was
across the narrows from Skye. Looking at the map, it seemed to me that,
in spite of being passportless, I might be able somehow to make my way
up through Morvern and Arisaig to the latitude of Skye. The difficulty
would be to get across the strip of sea, but there must be boats to
beg, borrow or steal.

I was poring over Baddely when Gresson sat down beside me. He was in a
good temper, and disposed to talk, and to my surprise his talk was all
about the beauties of the countryside. There was a kind of apple-green
light over everything; the steep heather hills cut into the sky like
purple amethysts, while beyond the straits the western ocean stretched
its pale molten gold to the sunset. Gresson waxed lyrical over the
scene. 'This just about puts me right inside, Mr Brand. I've got to get
away from that little old town pretty frequent or I begin to moult like
a canary. A man feels a man when he gets to a place that smells as good
as this. Why in hell do we ever get messed up in those stone and lime
cages? I re