Now if anyone should know of Carver’s purpose, it would be Colin Lothian, and my uncle questioned him on the subject.

“Colin,” said he, “they tell me that Carver is gettin’ a new boat frae Kirkwall.  D’ye ken what he means to do wi’ it?”

“That’s piper’s news,” said Colin.  “I heard that three or four weeks syne; and I hae seen the boat mysel’, on the stocks at Allan Dewar’s boatyard.  Ay, and a bonnie boat she is!  As to what Carver means to do wi’ it—­Weel, I dinna ken if it be true; but I hae heard that he intends to start as a Stromness pilot in opposition to Sandy Ericson.”

“A pilot!” exclaimed Mansie.  “Carver Kinlay a pilot!  Man, Colin, ye astonish me.  Why, the man hasna gotten a certificate!”

“Maybe ay and maybe no; but I assure ye, Mansie, that a pilot he means to be.”

Mansie dismissed this notion incredulously; for though Kinlay knew the coast 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.