Sunday was a good day and I strolled over to see the Coastguard Officer who had attended, I was told, the salving of my boat. I wanted to thank him and whoever else had done me so friendly a service. He was a pleasant southern Englishman and when I expressed my gratitude I could see he was embarrassed. Then I learned that he had not only officially reported the salvage of the vessel but named in his report the nine men who had assisted. In short, the matter was still in the hands of the head Receiver of Wreck and he wondered whether legally the vessel could not be detained pending a settlement of all salvage claims I

A stroke quite as thrilling as the age of the engine! So I smiled, and as I had once had occasion to act as a Receiver of Wreck myself, we discussed the matter in all its bearings and implications.

Before I left him he put me through my paces in weather lore, and asked me if I had distress signals, rockets, or similar gear aboard. I confessed I had none. This shocked him and he told me to remember, whatever else I forgot, that I could always soak rags in paraffin and make a flare.

At six on Monday morning I looked out of my bedroom window and saw a sea of glass. For some reason, I had slept very little. I was by this time almost completely short of ready cash.

The West has so long been run by landlords, shooting tenants, dukes, and yachtsmen, that anyone with anything in the nature of a cruising vessel is inclined to be included within the moneyed class. There are, in fact, whole villages mainly dependent on this summer yachting business. The men run yachts during the season and then have the winter at home and appear at church in fine clothes and bowler hats like Glasgow professional men. The yacht owners for the most part are very kind to them, and I heard of one seaman who last year returned home in a motor-car which his master had presented to him.

Unfortunately for me I did not belong to this kind of owning class. And there was this business to settle with the Coastguard Officer. So at seven I got up, and, with the hotel lad, carried down our gear to the dinghy, which the Crew had painted, and which still leaked despite the copious tar a local skipper had smeared on her bottom. For an hour and a half we were very busy starting up the old engine—with once a backfire of pure flame over the carburettor—and heaving the two anchors. We had as much as we could do to get the heavier one aboard, and I realised then that I could never hope to heave it alone. However, nothing was going to stop me now. We came nearer the shore and dropped the light anchor. Then I left the lad to putty up round the exhaust outlet of the bilge pump and do one or two still unfinished jobs while I went off to the coastguard station.