Gresson sat in the stern, placidly eating his luncheon.
I watched every detail of that crossing with some satisfaction that my forecast was turning out right.

About half-way across, Gresson took the oars, but soon surrendered them to the _Tobermory_ man, and lit a pipe.
He got out a pair of binoculars and raked my hillside.

I tried to see if my neighbour was making any signal, but all was quiet.

Presently the boat was hid from me by the bulge of the hill, and I caught the sound of her scraping on the beach.
Gresson was not a hill-walker like my neighbour.

It took him the best part of an hour to get to the top, and he reached it at a point not two yards from my hiding-place.