The Pit-Prop Syndicate. John Curran

better could a country be seen than by slowly motoring through its waterways? Merriman was well pleased with the prospect.

      And then there would be Hilliard. Merriman had always enjoyed his company, and he felt he would be an ideal companion on the tour. It was true Hilliard had got a bee in his bonnet about this lorry affair. Merriman was mildly interested in the thing, but he would never have dreamt of going back to the sawmill to investigate. But Hilliard seemed quite excited about it. His attitude, no doubt, might be partly explained by his love of puzzles and mysteries. Perhaps also he half believed in his absurd suggestion about the smuggling, or at least felt that if it were true there was the chance of his making some coup which would also make his name. How a man’s occupation colours his mind! thought Merriman. Here was Hilliard, and because he was in the Customs his ideas ran to Customs operations, and when he came across anything he did not understand he at once suggested smuggling. If he had been a soldier he would have guessed gunrunning, and if a politician, a means of bringing anarchist literature into the country. Well, he had not seen Madeleine Coburn! He would soon drop so absurd a notion when he had met her. The idea of her being party to such a thing was too ridiculous even to be annoying.

      However, Hilliard insisted on going to the mill, and he, Merriman, could then pay that call on the Coburns. It would not be polite to be in the neighbourhood and not do so. And it would be impossible to call without asking Miss Coburn to come on the river. As the train rumbled on through the rapidly darkening country Merriman began once again to picture the details of that excursion. No doubt they could have tea on board … He mustn’t forget to buy some decent cakes in Bordeaux … Perhaps she would help him to get it ready while Hilliard steered and pottered over his old engines … He could just imagine her bending over a tea tray, her graceful figure, the little brown tendrils of her hair at the edge of her tam-o’-shanter, her brown eyes perhaps flashing up to meet his own …

      Dover came unexpectedly soon and Merriman had to postpone the further consideration of his plans until he had gone on board the boat and settled down in a corner of the smoke room. There, however, he fell asleep, not awaking until aroused by the bustle of the arrival in Calais.

      He reached Paris just before six and drove to the Gare Quai d’Orsay, where he had time for a bath and breakfast before catching the 7.50 a.m. express for Bordeaux. Again it was a perfect day, and as the hours passed and they ran steadily southward through the pleasing but monotonous central plain of France, the heat grew more and more oppressive. Poictiers was hot, Angoulême an oven, and Merriman was not sorry when at a quarter to five they came in sight of the Garonne at the outskirts of Bordeaux and a few moments later pulled up in the Bastide Station.

      Hilliard was waiting at the platform barrier.

      ‘Hallo, old man,’ he cried. ‘Jolly to see you. Give me one of your handbags. I’ve got a taxi outside.’

      Merriman handed over the smallest of the two small suit-cases he carried, having, in deference to Hilliard’s warnings, left behind most of the things he wanted to bring. They found the taxi and drove out at once across the great stone bridge leading from the Bastide Station and suburb on the east bank to the main city on the west. In front of them lay the huge concave sweep of quays fronting the Garonne, here a river of over a quarter of a mile in width, with behind the massed buildings of the town, out of which here and there rose church spires and, farther down-stream, the three imposing columns of the Place des Quinconces.

      ‘Some river, this,’ Merriman said, looking up and down the great sweep of water.

      ‘Rather. I have the Swallow ’longside a private wharf farther up-stream. Rather tumbled down old shanty, but it’s easier than mooring in the stream and rowing out. We’ll go and leave your things aboard, and then we can come up town again and get some dinner.’

      ‘Right-o,’ Merriman agreed.

      Having crossed the bridge they turned to the left, up-stream, and ran along the quays towards the south. After passing the railway bridge the taxi swung down towards the water’s edge, stopping at a somewhat decrepit enclosure over the gate of which was the legend ‘Andre Leblanc, Location de Canots’. Hilliard jumped out, paid the taxi man, and, followed by Merriman, entered the enclosure.

      It was a small place, with a wooden quay along the river frontage and a shed at the opposite side. Between the two lay a number of boats. Trade appeared to be bad, for there was no life about the place and everything was dirty and decaying.

      ‘There she is,’ Hilliard cried, with a ring of pride in his voice. ‘Isn’t she a beauty?’

      The Swallow was tied up alongside the wharf, her bow up-stream, and lay tugging at her mooring ropes in the swift run of the ebb tide. Merriman’s first glance at her was one of disappointment. He had pictured a graceful craft of well-polished wood, with white deck planks, shining brass work and cushioned seats. Instead he saw a square-built, clumsy looking boat, painted, where the paint was not worn off, a sickly greenish white, and giving a general impression of dirt and want of attention. She was flush-decked, and sat high in the water, with a freeboard of nearly five feet. A little forward of amidships was a small deck cabin containing a brass wheel and binnacle. Aft of the cabin, in the middle of the open space of the deck, was a skylight, the top of which formed two short seats placed back to back. Forward rose a stumpy mast carrying a lantern cage near the top, and still farther forward, almost in the bows, lay an unexpectedly massive anchor, housed in grids, with behind it a small hand winch for pulling in the chain.

      ‘We had a bit of a blow coming round the Coubre into the river,’ Hilliard went on enthusiastically, ‘and I tell you she didn’t ship a pint. The cabin bone dry, and green water coming over her all the time.’

      Merriman could believe it. Though his temporary home was not beautiful, he could see that she was strong; in fact, she was massive. But he thanked his stars he had not assisted in the test. He shuddered at the very idea, thinking gratefully that to reach Bordeaux the Paris-Orleans Railway was good enough for him.

      But, realising it was expected of him, he began praising the boat, until the unsuspecting Hilliard believed him as enthusiastic as himself.

      ‘Yes, she’s all of that,’ he agreed. ‘Come aboard and see the cabin.’

      They descended a flight of steps let into the front of the wharf, wet, slippery, ooze-covered steps left bare by the receding tide, and, stepping over the side entered the tiny deck-house.

      ‘This is chart-house, shelter, and companion-way all in one,’ Hilliard explained. ‘All the engine controls come up here, and I can reach them with my left hand while steering with my right.’ He demonstrated as he spoke, and Merriman could not but agree that the arrangements were wonderfully compact and efficient.

      ‘Come below now,’ went on the proud owner, disappearing down a steep flight of steps against one wall of the house.

      The hull was divided into three compartments; amidships the engine room with its twin engines, forward a store containing among other things a collapsible boat, and aft a cabin with lockers on each side, a folding table between them, and a marble-topped cupboard on which was a Primus stove.

      The woodwork was painted the same greenish white as the outside, but it was soiled and dingy, and the whole place looked dirty and untidy. There was a smell of various oils, paraffin predominating.

      ‘You take the port locker,’ Hilliard explained. ‘You see, the top of it lifts and you can stow your things in it. When there are only two of us we sleep on the lockers. You’ll find a sheet and blankets inside. There’s a board underneath that turns up to keep you in if she’s rolling; not that we shall want it until we get to the Mediterranean. I’m afraid,’ he went on, answering Merriman’s unspoken thought, ‘the place is not very tidy. I hadn’t time to do much squaring—I’ll tell you about that later. I suppose’—reluctantly—‘we had better turn to and clean up a bit before we go to bed. But’—brightening up again—‘not now. Let’s go up town and get some dinner as soon as you are ready.’

      He fussed about, explaining with the loving and painstaking minuteness of the designer as well as the owner, the