The Saint and Mr Teal (Once More the Saint)

She was sailing much too close to the wind-quite literally. Simon Templar saw it from the beginning, and had wondered whether it was pure daring or sheer foolishness. He was perched up on a comparatively smooth ledge of rock, sunning himself in a sublime vacancy of relaxation, and thinking of nothing in particular. The cool waters of the Atlantic were swish­ing and gurgling among the boulders a dozen feet below him, countering the pale brazen blue of the sky with a translucent intensity of colour that was as rich as anything in the Mediterranean: he had bathed in them for a few minutes, feeling the sticky heat of his walk dissolving under their icy impact with a gratitude that touched the foundations of utter physical contentment: then he had climbed up to his chosen ledge to let the sun dry his body. He wondered, lazily, whether the R.S.P.C.A. would have its views about the corruptive influence of his costume on the morals of a score of seagulls that were squabbling raucously over a scrap of food that had been left in a rocky pool by the falling tide; and he wondered also, with the same peaceful laziness, what strange discontent it was that had made Man of his own free will turn his back on the life that was always his, and take himself with his futile in­satiable ambitions to the stifling cities from which the escape to his own inheritance seemed so fantastic and impossible. And out of lazily half-closed eyes he watched the white sailing dinghy dancing over the swell. Too close to the wind-much too close. ...

It all happened in a flash, with the suddenness that every experienced yachtsman knows and labours to avoid. The breeze was baffling, switching around six points of the compass in strong gusts that scraped little raw patches of white foam off the tops of the ponderous rollers. The girl stood up and tried to reach something forward, steadying the tiller with one hand as she leaned away from it. The wind shifted round another point and blew a vicious puff at the flapping canvas, and the mainsail swung across with a sharp crack. The boom seemed to catch the girl on the side of the head, and she went over the side with a splash.

Simon stood up, watching for her to come up and swim back to the boat; but she didn't rise again.

It was not a particularly sensational rescue, as rescues go. The dinghy was only about thirty yards from the shore, and the Saint was a fast swimmer. He found her in a few moments and towed her after the boat. The fitful breeze had broken down short-windedly, and it was fairly easy. Simon was able to haul her on board and slacken the sheet before it blew again; then the girl moved, coughing and choking, and the Saint slipped hurriedly over the side again.

She rubbed the side of her head tenderly; and then she opened her eyes and saw his tanned face smiling down at her, with a pair of brown forearms braced over the gunwale.

'What happened?' she asked dizzily.

'You jibed,' answered a dispassionate Saint. 'A bad show-and not to be encouraged in a real wind.'

It was obvious that the power of resenting criticism had been temporarily bumped and soaked out of her- an indicative symptom which might profitably be remembered by harassed husbands who take their spouses for holidays by the sea.

'Where did you come from?'

'Off a rock,' said the Saint.

She coughed, and choked again with a grimace.

'Excuse me if I spit,' she said.

The Saint excused her. She did it to windward, which was not too successful. Simon regarded her sadly.

'You're new to this, aren't you?' he said mildly.

'You've got to begin sometime,' she said defiantly.

'I've had a few lessons from one of the men, and I thought I'd like to try it by myself. Nobody was using the dinghy, so I just took it.'

'There's only one policeman in the Scilly Isles,' murmured Simon, 'so if you lie low you may get away with it.'

'Oh, I didn't steal it. It belongs to the yacht.'

Simon raised his eyebrows.

'Have you got a yacht?'

'My stepfather has. The Claudette. We're lying over at Tresco.'

The line of black-etched eyebrows seemed to harden fractionally.

'Near Abdul Osman's?'

'Why-how did you know?'

'Sort of bush telegraph,' said the Saint. 'It's amazing how the news travels in these wild parts.'

It was during some of this conversation that he was able to review the artistic proportions of her body; for she was dressed in nothing more than a bathing costume in the modern style, consisting largely of entrances for the priceless ultra-violet ray.

'Are you determined to stay where you are?' she inquired presently; and the Saint smiled.

'Not permanently,' he said. 'But my bathing costume is even more modern than yours. You inter­rupted a lovely sunbath r l'atlemande. However, if you like to stay here for a minute I'll swim back and fetch some clothes.'

He slid down into the water without waiting for his suggestion to be accepted, and made for the shore again, cutting a clean line through the water and leaving a wake behind. He returned on his back, one hand holding a bundle of shirt, trousers, and shoes high and dry in the air.

'I was born without shame,' he said, heaving the bundle over the stern. ' But if you feel bashful you can go forward and talk to the fish while I use your towel.'

'I suppose you saved my life,' said the girl, staring with intense concentration at a completely empty horizon, while the boat rocked under her as he pulled himself on board.

'There is no charge,' said the Saint.

He towelled himself rapidly, and pulled on his trousers; then he set himself to bring the dinghy round and trim