ders, which are the
curse o' skippers. Syne we made over to Holyhead, an' Bell opened the
last envelope for the last instructions. I was wi' him in the cuddy, an'
he threw it over to me, cryin': 'Did ye ever know the like, Mac?'

"I'll no say what McRimmon had written, but he was far from mad. There
was a sou'wester brewin' when we made the mouth o' the Mersey, a bitter
cold morn wi' a grey-green sea and a grey-green sky--Liverpool weather,
as they say; an' there we lay choppin', an' the crew swore. Ye canna
keep secrets aboard ship. They thought McRimmon was mad, too.

"Syne we saw the Grotkau rollin' oot on the top o' flood, deep an'
double deep, wi' her new-painted funnel an' her new-painted boats an'
a'. She looked her name, an', moreover, she coughed like it. Calder
tauld me at Radley's what ailed his engines, but my own ear would ha'
told me twa mile awa', by the beat o' them. Round we came, plungin' an'
squatterin' in her wake, an' the wind cut wi' good promise o' more to
come. By six it blew hard but clear, an' before the middle watch it was
a sou'wester in airnest.

"'She'll edge into Ireland, this gait,' says Bell. I was with him on the
bridge, watchin' the Grotkau's port light. Ye canna see green so far as
red, or we'd ha' kept to leeward. We'd no passengers to consider, an'
(all eyes being on the Grotkau) we fair walked into a liner rampin' home
to Liverpool. Or, to be preceese, Bell no more than twisted the Kite
oot from under her bows, and there was a little damnin' betwix' the twa
bridges. "Noo a passenger"--McPhee regarded me benignantly--"wad ha'
told the papers that as soon as he got to the Customs. We stuck to the
Grotkau's tail that night an' the next twa days--she slowed down to five
knot by my reckonin' and we lapped along the weary way to the Fastnet."

"But you don't go by the Fastnet to get to any South American port, do
you?" I said.

"We do not. We prefer to go as direct as may be. But we were followin'
the Grotkau, an' she'd no walk into that gale for ony consideration.
Knowin' what I did to her discredit, I couldna blame young Bannister.
It was warkin' up to a North Atlantic winter gale, snow an' sleet an' a
perishin' wind. Eh, it was like the Deil walkin' abroad o' the surface
o' the deep, whuppin' off the top o' the waves before he made up his
mind. They'd bore up against it so far, but the minute she was clear
o' the Skelligs she fair tucked up her skirts an' ran for it by Dunmore
He