That evening Gresson and I swopped yarns after supper to the accompaniment of the ‘Ma Goad!’ and ‘Is’t possible?’ of captain and mate.  I went to bed after a glass or two of weak grog, and made up for the last night’s vigil by falling sound asleep.  I had very little kit with me, beyond what I stood up in and could carry in my waterproof pockets, but on Amos’s advice I had brought my little nickel-plated revolver.  This lived by day in my hip pocket, but at night I put it behind my pillow.  But when I woke next morning to find us casting anchor in the bay below rough low hills, which I knew to be the island of Colonsay, I could find no trace of the revolver.  I searched every inch of the bunk and only shook out feathers from the mouldy ticking.  I remembered perfectly putting the thing behind my head before I went to sleep, and now it had vanished utterly.  Of course I could not advertise my loss, and I didn’t greatly mind it, for this was not a job where I could do much shooting.  But it made me think a good deal about Mr Gresson.  He simply could not suspect me; if he had bagged my gun, as I was pretty certain he had, it must be because he wanted it for himself and not that he might disarm me.  Every way I argued it I reached the same conclusion.  In Gresson’s eyes I must seem as harmless as a child.

We spent the better part of a day at Colonsay, and Gresson, so far as his duties allowed, stuck to me like a limpet.  Before I went ashore I wrote out a telegram for Amos.  I devoted a hectic hour to the Pilgrim’s Progress, but I could not compose any kind of intelligible message with reference to its text.  We had all the same edition—­the one in the Golden Treasury series—­so I could have made up a sort of cipher by referring to lines and pages, but that would have taken up a dozen telegraph forms and seemed to me too elaborate for the purpose.  So I sent this message: 

Ochterlony, Post Office, Kyle, I hope to spend part of holiday near you and to see you if boat’s programme permits.  Are any good cargoes waiting in your neighbourhood?  Reply Post Office, Oban.

It was highly important that Gresson should not see this, but it was the deuce of a business to shake him off.  I went for a walk in the afternoon along the shore and passed the telegraph office, but the confounded fellow was with me all the time.  My only chance was just before we sailed, when he had to go on board to check some cargo.  As the telegraph office stood full in view of the ship’s deck I did not go near it.  But in the back end of the clachan I found the schoolmaster, and got him to promise to send the wire.  I also bought off him a couple of well-worn sevenpenny novels.

The result was that I delayed our departure for ten minutes and when I came on board faced a wrathful Gresson.  ’Where the hell have you been?’ he asked.  ’The weather’s blowing up dirty and the old man’s mad to get off.  Didn’t you get your legs stretched enough this afternoon?’