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