On this warm still evening--for the day was drawing to a close--_Messenger_ floated lazily on a heaving oily sea. The sky was full of brassy clouds that seemed to have a copper lining; these, drifting, with scarcely perceptible movement, from the north and east, formed rather a serious barrier to getting home, because, given a good strong tide running out also, what is the cleverest yacht to do?

Earlier in the day, with mainsail set as well as mizzen, with big jib ballooning out in fine style, in fact, looking exactly what a well-kept yawl should look, _Messenger_ had gone away down to the southwest straight before the wind and with the tide. The skipper had acted on a sound principle in this; but she was not very sure of her tides, and, having decided that the tide should be in their favour for the homeward run, was now disturbed and puzzled to find it had not turned yet--and the hour was six o’clock or after.

"Of course," said Pam, leaning with her head back against the deck-house, "of course that was where old Penberthy came in. He didn’t do anything. He was fearfully lazy, but he was a perfect clock for tides."

"So shall we be, soon," murmured Adrian peacefully from under the brim of a battered hat, "but anyway what does it matter! We shall be home some day. Great Scot, isn’t this A1!"

"It would be if I wasn’t afraid Mother would worry. It’s our first day without anybody, you see----" Christobel suggested this in an apologetic tone.

"My good Crow--what do you call anybody, might I ask? Old Pen was simply luggage. And Mollie is only one more hand, naturally. I mean she couldn’t effect a rescue if we went to smash, could she?"

"Of course not, but Mother----"

"Mother is full of sense," said Adrian with decision, as he sat up and looked about appreciatively. "I never in all my life saw anything more perfect than the colours on the old Beak and Bell Ridge. I wouldn’t have missed this evening for--well--really, Crow, what does time matter? It’s as calm as a plate."

That was true, but the skipper’s eye glanced uneasily towards the dipping sun.

Hughie, sitting as usual like a small image of contemplation in a comfortable corner of the well, had said nothing, but listened to the argument.

"If I was at home I could say to Mum there’s no wind," he suggested.

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