Quarter of an hour's walk in that
direction told me all I wanted to know about her. In fact I recognised
her as no stranger at all but an old acquaintance, H.M.S. _Uruguay_, a
great lump of an ex-liner once running to South American ports with a
band in the saloon at nights. Now, painted grey, with the white ensign
flying over her, and some hundreds of blue jackets and a formidable
complement of six inch guns aboard, she was one of those auxiliary
cruisers which have been doing so many odd jobs and getting through so
much dirty, risky, arduous work during this war.
What had brought her under the lee of Ransay I could but guess; some
engine trouble and that gale on top of it most probably, but there she
was, and there were the islanders standing at each door gazing at her. I
gazed too for a while and then came back to our early dinner.
Going out again in the afternoon, the affable Mr. Hobhouse was passing
the time of day with a couple of petty officers within five minutes, and
as he continued his walk he saw that, whatever was the reason, H.M.S.
_Uruguay_ was not going to leave immediately. The wind had now fallen to
a stiff breeze, and as she lay under the shelter of the island, shore
leave had evidently been given to a number of the men. First at one farm
and then at another he could spy parties of blue jackets buying butter
and eggs, poultry and cheeses, everything fresh from the land they could
get.
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