I had difficulty in making out the points of
land as we passed, but Jerry was at the bow, and I depended upon
him and Peter for my steering. Just as we were abreast of Stanger
Head, on the little island of Flotta, I thought I saw a small
vessel creeping along, well inshore. I drew the mate's attention to
it, and he was denying me, when a bright flash of light was seen,
followed by a loud report, as of a small piece of ordnance. Peering
through the darkness, we could distinguish the sails of a large
cutter, which was now bearing down upon us.
"It's the Clasper," said Jerry, coming aft.
"Confound him!" said the mate. "Does she take us for a smuggler?"
From these words I at once understood the meaning of the shot that
had been fired; the revenue cutter had evidently mistaken the
Falcon for one of the famous smuggling craft of Scapa Flow.
We were at once hauled round, and a boat from the Clasper came
alongside. A sprightly young lieutenant climbed over our starboard
bulwarks, followed by a sailor who carried a large lantern. This
the officer took from him, and coming aft to where we all three
stood, he held the light aloft peering into our faces.
By this time our skipper came up from the cabin, rubbing his sleepy
eyes.
"What's all the row, Peter?" said he.
"Ah! Flett, it's you, eh?" said the lieutenant politely.
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