The crew, observing this gloom, smiled with ‘wondrous cheerfulness’, implying a faith so irrational that surely even a saint might be forgiven the movement within him of some slight exasperation. She did not, however, add to the offence by speaking.

Turning to the Mate, I worked out how by this time the top of the cylinder must have collected a fair drop of water. First of all we would have a look over the nuts, then turn the engine until the water was expelled through the priming cap. If after that we could get her going on three cylinders, we would try for the Bull Hole. It was a course of action, and helped the spirit a bit, so that I got the length of suggesting, with searching irony as I hoped, that we could hardly expect Columba to have a really deep knowledge of the internal combustion engine.

Whereat the Crew’s smile merely became more cheerful. The swell was a bit nasty, and we experienced some difficulty in launching the dinghy, and finally I pushed off with the surf above my knees.

But we got aboard and tried all outward and visible nuts. Nothing moved, for I often put a spanner over them, except one sparking plug, which took almost a turn. So much for that. Now for the expulsion of the water.

I inserted the starting handle and swung the flywheel. Instead of water, clean vapourless air came hissing through. There was no water. The small orifice did not even show damp.

I swung again, with the same result. I looked at the Mate. Nothing was said—except by the Crew, and she merely smiled. I primed all four cylinders and they went off in a splendid roar. The Mate broke out the anchor, I shoved the gear lever forward, and we headed into the Sound. Then the Mate took the tiller, while I, of little faith, stood by the engine.

When he put her about for the Bull Hole, we met a tide between the high rocks running strongly. Slowly but surely she nosed up through it, the propeller racing slightly as we were tossed from behind. She certainly could not have made the passage on three cylinders, for there was a moment off the point when I glanced ashore to make sure we were still going ahead. Anchored in the old spot, I switched off, and we listened in. There was no hissing. I opened the priming cap. There was no steam. Never again, in fact, did we experience the same trouble. We were in the midst of a debate, intricately hypothetical, as to what we had done to put the matter right, when the Crew said, ‘If you get out of my way, I’ll get the supper.’

But, if in a different fashion, quite as unexpected a thing happened to us on the morning we decided to leave for Colonsay. By six o‘clock we had the engine oiled, greased, and spanner-tight. The glass stood at 30.05, the highest it had been for weeks. The morning was calm. Colonsay anchorage is exposed to easterly winds. Presently a westerly breeze would spring up to reassure us. We were just about to start when a gust of wind hit the water. The sky was clouding. By the time we had got to a hill-top, a strong sou’easterly breeze was blowing with promise of increase. Deciding to give it an hour or so, we returned to find the glass had fallen a point. The wind rose. We were stuck.