But our stay at Burwick was not for long, as we had lost much time in the outer sea, and the skipper wanted to get round to St. Margaret’s Hope.  No sooner had we put a boatload of goods ashore than we set sail again.  And now that we were in smoother water, I was not allowed to shirk my watch, but had to spend the better part of the night on deck.

A little after midnight we were sailing under easy sail through the dark Sound of Hoxa.  I was at the helm, the mate walking the deck in front of me.  The night was extremely cold, and some light flakes of snow were falling.  I had difficulty in making out the points of land as we passed, but Jerry was at the bow, and I depended upon him and Peter for my steering.  Just as we were abreast of Stanger Head, on the little island of Flotta, I thought I saw a small vessel creeping along, well inshore.  I drew the mate’s attention to it, and he was denying me, when a bright flash of light was seen, followed by a loud report, as of a small piece of ordnance.  Peering through the darkness, we could distinguish the sails of a large cutter, which was now bearing down upon us.

“It’s the Clasper,” said Jerry, coming aft.

“Confound him!” said the mate.  “Does she take us for a smuggler?”

From these words I at once understood the meaning of the shot that had been fired; the revenue cutter had evidently mistaken the Falcon for one of the famous smuggling craft of Scapa Flow.

We were at once hauled round, and a boat from the Clasper came alongside.  A sprightly young lieutenant climbed over our starboard bulwarks, followed by a sailor who carried a large lantern.  This the officer took from him, and coming aft to where we all three stood, he held the light aloft peering into our faces.

By this time our skipper came up from the cabin, rubbing his sleepy eyes.

“What’s all the row, Peter?” said he.

“Ah!  Flett, it’s you, eh?” said the lieutenant politely.  “I’m sorry to trouble you on such a cold night; I did not recognize your schooner in the dark.  But we have strict orders, you know.  There’s a lot of it going on, and we must search you.  A mere matter of form, of course.  You won’t object?”

“Nay, I don’t object, Mr. Fox.  Search away,” said David, turning to go below.

A hurried search was made accordingly, but nothing suggesting contraband traffic being discovered, the revenue men went away perfectly satisfied, the lieutenant wishing us a goodnight, and requesting us to keep the affair a secret when we arrived in Stromness.

Early on the next day we touched at St. Margaret’s Hope—­one of the chief fishing stations of Orkney—­and our course thereafter lay along the eastern shores of the Mainland.

Long and dreary was the passage northward from Ronaldsay to Stronsay.  The cold, frosty winds and weary, dark nights, made the long watches on deck difficult to endure; but when my turn was over, and I could get below to the fire, I generally forgot about the hardships, and began to think that life at sea was really not unpleasant.