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Rob was quite bewildered. All he could say was–

‘I am obliged to ye, sir. Will ye wait for a minute till I see Neil.’

And very soon the wild rumour ran through Erisaig that no other than Rob MacNicol had been appointed master of the new skiff, the Mary of Argyle; and that he had taken his brothers and cousin as his crew. Some of the women shook their heads; and said it was a shame to let such mere lads go to the herring-fishing–for some night or other they would be drowned; but the men, who knew something of Rob’s seamanship, had no fear at all; and their only doubt was about the younger lads being up to the heavy work of hauling in the nets in the morning.

But their youth was a fault that would mend week by week. In the meantime, Rob, having sold out his share in MacDougall’s boat, bought jerseys and black boots and yellow oil-skins for his companions; so that the new crew, if they were rather slightly built, looked smart enough, as they went down to the slip to overhaul the Mary of Argyle.

With what a pride they regarded the long and shapely lines of her–the yellow beams shining with varnish; the tall mast at the bow, with its stout cordage; the brand-new stove, that was to boil their tea for them in the long watches of the night; the magnificent oars; the new sheets and sails–everything spick and span. And this great mass of ruddy netting lying in the shed, with its perfect floats and accurate sinkers–this was not like the makeshift that had captured the cuddies.

Then on the morning that the Mary of Argyle put to sea on her trial trip, her owner was on board; but he merely sat on a thwart. It was Rob who was at the tiller; Rob wanted to try the boat; the owner wanted to observe the crew. And first of all she sailed lightly out of the harbour, with the wind on her beam; then outside, the breeze being fresher, they let her away down Loch Scrone, with the brilliant new lug-sail bellying out; then they brought her round, and fought her up against the stiff wind–Rob’s brief words of command being obeyed with the rapidity of lightning.

‘Well, what do ye think of her?’ said Mr. Bailie to his young skipper.

Rob’s face was aglow with pride.

‘I think she’s like a race-horse!’ he said. ‘I think she would lick any boat in Erisaig Bay.’

‘But it is not to run races I have handed her over to ye. You must be careful, Rob; and run back if there’s any squally weather about. I’ll no be vexed if you’re over cautious. For ye know if anything was to happen to one of they lads, the people would say I had done wrong in lippening[2] a boat to such a young crew.’

[2: Lippening–trusting.]

‘Well, sir,’ said Rob, boldly, ‘ye have seen them work the boat. Do they look like lads who do not know what sailing a boat is?’

Mr. Bailie laughed, and said no more.

Then came the afternoon on which they were to set out for the first time after the herring. All Erisaig came out to see; and Rob was a proud lad as he stepped on board (with the lazy indifference of the trained fisherman very well imitated) and took his seat as stroke oar. The afternoon was lovely; there was not a breath of wind; the setting sun shone over the bay; and the Mary of Argyle went away across the shining waters with the long white oars dipping with the precision of clock-work. It was not until they were at the mouth of the harbour that something occurred which seemed likely to turn this brave setting-out into ridicule.

This was Daft Sandy, who rowed his punt right across the path of the Mary of Argyle, and, as she came up, called to Rob.