t very well, yet the idea of his starting with his limited
experience as an Orkney pilot was droll to one who, like my uncle,
had been all his life at the work, and knew every fathom of the
waters.

But the character of Carver Kinlay--"Crafty Carver" he was called
by those who knew him well--was a problem which had not yet been
solved. I had myself gathered many incoherent hints relating to
him, and, bit by bit, I heard fragments of fact as to his first
appearance in Pomona; but on this Sunday evening, as I sat with
Lothian and Mansie, I added to these hints some certain knowledge
which enabled me afterwards to better understand this man.

The noise of the storm raging outside--the wind and rain beating on
the windows, and the sound of the waves breaking against the
cliffs--brought the two men to talk about the ships that had from
time to time been wrecked on our neighbouring coast. Said Mansie:

"'Twas on a night like this--d'ye mind, Colin?--that the Undine
went to pieces on the Gaulton Craigs."

"Ay," said Colin, "weel do I mind it, and weel, I reckon, does
Carver Kinlay mind it."

The conversation regarding the incident was disjointed. Let me,
therefore, tell the story in my own words.

My father had with his gallant crew gone out to sea one stormy
night in the pilot boat. A stiff westerly wind was blowing, and the
headland of Hoy was hidden in mist and spray. The Curlew was
steered out into the open sea in the hope of falling in with any
ship that required piloting into the safe haven of Stromness.
Beaten about on the heavy sea, the boat was brought along the outer
coast of Pomona until she stood off abreast of the Head of Marwick.
Along the coastline of Sandwick, as she sailed back towards
Stromness, the waves rose in angry foam against the rugged cliffs.
None but men thoroughly accustomed to the terrors of the
storm-swept Orkneys could have taken that little craft through such
a surging sea, and it was only by the help of the light that was
always kept aglow in the windows of Lyndardy farmhouse that they
were able to guide the boat in safety.

When the Curlew was abreast of Inganess, Willie Slater, the lookout
man at the bow, reported a ship in sight; and as my uncle Mansie
lighted a rude torch, made of old rope steeped in the oil of sea
birds, my father peered into the darkness and saw a large barque
heading towards the land. The blazing light of the torch was
presently waved as a warning signal to tho