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statement?’
    For the benefit of the policemen the Skipper shouted, ‘Ye can say I’m considering bringing an action.’
    The reporter grinned. ‘Good for you, Captain! What’s your destination?’
    â€˜Kiltarra.’
    The policemen, deciding regretfully that there was nothing to be done, sailed upstream, their launch cutting neat ripples through the water. Taking this as a moral victory for the Maggie the onlookers raised a cheer.
    â€˜What are you carrying?’ the reporter called.
    The Skipper, hanging out of the wheelhouse, raised his voice so that it would carry to the scoffers on the bank. ‘A very valuable cargo what belongs to Mr Calvin B. Marshall, of World International Airways . . .’
    â€˜Are you now?’ Visibly impressed, the reporter made a note. ‘And you’re going to Kiltarra, Captain?’
    â€˜Aye.’
    â€˜As soon as you’re – afloat?’
    â€˜Aye.’
    â€˜How do you propose to get her off, Captain?’
    â€˜How d’ye think? I’ll wait for the tide.’
    Along the bank and the bridge the audience, growing restless, continued their catcalls. ‘Ahoy! Captain Carlsen! Are ye hanging on?’ The Skipper and his crew bristled with indignation as they waited for the tide.

Chapter Seven
    One reason for Calvin B. Marshall’s success was that when things went wrong he was not afraid of making himself responsible for putting them right. Within an hour of hearing Pusey’s miserable story he was on a plane bound for Glasgow.
    It was a BEA plane – belonging to their chief rivals – but even he, the General Overseas Manager of World International Airways, could find nothing to criticise. They had left Northolt punctual to the minute, and now reclining in a deeply cushioned seat, with the green map of England rolling pleasantly below, he could feel for the first time a certain satisfaction in this small adventure. For the moment he was relaxed. In the next seat – a silk stocking, a neat shoe, the open notebook on her knee – sat the efficient Miss Peters. Across the gangway Pusey sat and perspired.
    Mr Marshall felt sorry for Pusey. So far as he could tell from his garbled story, this unscrupulous Skipper MacTaggart had tricked him into sending the cargo – Marshall’s cargo – by some wretched little boat called aPuffer. Mercifully, the boat had run aground before it had cleared Glasgow docks. Marshall, who could always admire initiative, looked forward to meeting MacTaggart. He bore him no grudge. A short flight to Glasgow, an hour there to settle the matter: he could be back in London in the morning. He remembered that tomorrow evening his wife was giving a dinner party.
    He must have dozed then, for when he opened his eyes the plane was stationary on the tarmac and Pusey was touching him deferentially on the arm. ‘If you’re ready, sir. I’ve hired a car.’
    They drove to the centre of Glasgow. The commissionaire of the Central Hotel touched his hat as he opened the door. Pusey and Miss Peters fluttered round two porters who were carrying the bags. Speed and efficiency. Marshall dropped two coppers to a newsvendor standing at the kerb.
    â€˜Puffer aground on subway – ‘‘Will sue’’ says Skipper.’ Below the caption, an ancient boat, ludicrously upended, held the centre of the page. Marshall smiled as he followed the porters to his suite.
    In a few minutes – for he would waste no time even on an adventure – he had washed and was ready to tackle all the shipping companies and skippers in Glasgow. He called Pusey. ‘Get this man Campbell on the phone. We’ll start with him.’
    â€˜Certainly, sir.’ Before Pusey could fumble through a directory, Miss Peters had handed him a slip with the telephone number of the CSS offices. Campbell was in and ready to take the call.
    â€˜Ye’re in Glasgow, Mr Pusey?