path: root/74975-0.txt

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 74975 ***

{Illustration: cover}

THE BOYS OF THE "PUFFIN"




  BRITISH BOYS' LIBRARY
  _Titles uniform with this volume_

  THE WAY OF THE WEASEL
  (A Public School Story)
                     _John Mowbray_

  GENERAL JOHN
                     _Evelyn Everett-Green_

  DICK'S DARING      _A. H. Biggs_

  SLEEPY SAUNDERS    _Rowland Walker_

  LOYALTY BOB        _Walter Copeland_

  THE HON. MASTER JINX
                     _Rowland Walker_

  BROWN A1           _E. M. Stooke_

  THE YELLOW PUP
                     _Evelyn Everett-Green_

  THE MYSTERY OF STOCKMERE SCHOOL
                     _Percy F. Westerman_

  THE LITTLE DUKE
                     _Charlotte M. Yonge_

  ----
  S. W. PARTRIDGE & Co.,
  4, 5 & 6, SOHO SQUARE, LONDON, W.1




{illustration: "'DON'T LET IT BUMP ALONGSIDE, WHATEVER YOU DO!'"
                                                       [_P_. 36}




  THE
  BOYS OF THE "PUFFIN"
  A SEA SCOUT YARN

  By
  PERCY F. WESTERMAN

  Author of "The Mystery of Stockmere School,"
  "Sinclair's Luck," etc.


  _Illustrated by_
  G. W. GOSS


  {illustration: logo}

  S. W. PARTRIDGE & CO.
  4, 5 & 6, SOHO SQUARE, LONDON, W.1.




MADE IN GREAT BRITAIN




 CONTENTS

  CHAP.                                            PAGE
     I. THE DEPUTY SCOUTMASTER . . . . . . . . . . .  7
    II. A LONG PASSAGE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15
   III. "LET ME OUT, OR----" . . . . . . . . . . . . 24
    IV. THE MIS-SPELT WORD  . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28
     V. THE PERIL IN THE FAIRWAY . . . . . . . . . . 32
    VI. TO SCUTTLE HIS SHIP  . . . . . . . . . . . . 39
   VII. THROUGH THE FOG BANK . . . . . . . . . . . . 45
  VIII. THE DESERTED STEAMER . . . . . . . . . . . . 52
    IX. TOWED INTO PORT  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 56
     X. A SURPRISE--AND AN ARREST  . . . . . . . . . 63
    XI. THE MYSTERIOUS VISITOR . . . . . . . . . . . 66
   XII. ADRIFT--THEN AGROUND . . . . . . . . . . . . 77
  XIII. A SUCCESSFUL RUSE  . . . . . . . . . . . . . 82
   XIV. ON THE TRACK OF THE "PUFFIN" . . . . . . . . 87
    XV. THE FISHING EXPEDITION . . . . . . . . . . . 93
   XVI. CATCHING A TARTAR  . . . . . . . . . . . .  101
  XVII. THE ATTACK ON THE "FROLIC" . . . . . . . .  106
 XVIII. CLEARING UP THE MYSTERY  . . . . . . . . .  112
   XIX. THE SHIP-KEEPERS . . . . . . . . . . . . .  115
    XX. THE CURMUDGEON . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  121
   XXI. THE MISSING BIRDS  . . . . . . . . . . . .  130
  XXII. FIRE!  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  136
 XXIII. CAUGHT BY THE SQUALL . . . . . . . . . . .  141
  XXIV. OVERBOARD! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  149
   XXV. SAFE AND SOUND . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  157




 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

 "DON'T LET IT BUMP ALONGSIDE WHATEVER YOU DO!"
                                         _Frontispiece_

                                          _Facing page_
 THE SQUAT LITTLE TUG LOOMED UP, HER CREW
   AUGMENTED BY SIXTEEN WILDLY EXCITED SEA
   SCOUTS  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61

 A WELL-DIRECTED THRUST ENABLED BRANDON TO
   REDUCE THE NUMBER BY ONE  . . . . . . . . . . .  108

 THE FIERCELY FLOGGING MAINSAIL THREATENED TO
   SWEEP THE SEA SCOUT FROM HIS PRECARIOUS
   POSITION . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 150




The Boys of the "Puffin"



CHAPTER I

THE DEPUTY SCOUTMASTER


"ANY luck?" Sea Scout Peter Craddock had heard that question many
times before. It seemed to be a stock phrase with the numerous
trippers at Aberstour whenever they attempted to open a conversation
with any of the amateur fishermen on the pier-head.

Peter finished the task on which he was engaged--placing a plump and
slippery ragworm upon a sharp, brand-new hook--before replying.

Turning his head, he saw that his questioner was a young, rather
prepossessing man, somewhere in the vicinity of twenty-five years of
age.

In one hand he held a folding kodak, in the other a towel and
bathing costume.

"Not yet," replied the Sea Scout. "I'm a bit too early. Tide's still
ebbing, though it's close on low water."

"Rummy little beasts," commented the stranger, as he looked at the
wriggling worms "I shouldn't care to handle them."

"You'd soon get used to that," declared Peter, "'specially if they
were put in sand--takes the slimy sensation off, you know."

"How do you get them?--buy them from the boatmen?"

"Some people do," observed the Sea Scout. "We don't. We dig for them
when the tide's out."

"Really?" rejoined the stranger; then, dropping the subject, he
pointed to a topsail schooner brought up outside the bar.

"What's she flying that flag for?" he asked.

"That's her ensign."

"I thought an ensign was always flown from the back end of a ship."

"The stern," corrected Peter. "Oh, no, not always. She's flying her
ensign at the foremast head. Shows she's come foreign."

"Come foreign," repeated the other. "What does that mean?"

"She's just arrived from a foreign part," explained the Sea Scout
with that touch of superiority in his tone which a seaman frequently
adopts when enlightening mere landlubbers. "She's bound to keep that
ensign flying until the Customs people give her clearance.
They're putting off to her now."

A dinghy, manned by a couple of bronzed individuals in pilot jackets
and peaked caps swept past the pierhead. The one in the stern sheets
gave a friendly salutation to the Sea Scout. Peter waved back a
reply.

"Friends of yours, eh?" continued the persistent questioner.

"Sort of," admitted Craddock. "Hello! My bait's gone again. The
crabs are busy. I don't fish off the pierhead as a rule, but some of
our fellows have gone away in the dinghy. That's our yacht over
there."

He pointed to a cutter of about eight tons sitting with only a
slight list on the mud.

"How jolly!" exclaimed the stranger. "Do you Scouts sail her
yourselves?"

Peter shook his head.

"No, that's the worst of it," he replied. "We aren't allowed to
without our Scoutmaster on board. We can use the dinghy, though."

"Do the Customs people ever search your yacht?" was the next
question.

"No, why should they?" replied Peter. "We aren't smugglers, and
we've never taken her across Channel. We may some day. 'Sides, the
Customs officers know all about us."

"'Fraid I'm not a good sailor," admitted the stranger. "I'd be
seasick. Well, I must be moving. Hope you'll have good luck when the
tide makes. Good morning."

"Good morning," replied Craddock.

The young man took half a dozen steps. Then he turned abruptly and
came back.

"By the bye," he said, "as you are a native of this place perhaps
you can give me the address of a Mr. Grant--Theodore Grant."

"I should just think I could!" exclaimed Peter. "He's our
Scoutmaster. He lives at Seamore Villa, just beyond the Martello
Tower. But it's no use your calling. He won't be in."

"Won't be in?--that's a pity."

"'Cause he's away for three or four days," explained the Sea Scout.
"And if he weren't, you wouldn't find him at home, 'cause he'd be
out sailing with us," he added.

"Grant's away for a few days, you say? Do you happen to know where
he's staying?"

"At Sablesham."

"Why, that's only twenty miles away," rejoined the stranger, his
face brightening. "I can easily slip over there on my motorbike.
Whereabouts in Sablesham is he staying, do you know?"

Yes, Peter did know, and forthwith gave the required information.

Then, with another "Good morning!" the bright young man walked
briskly off and disappeared from view round the corner of the High
Street.

At eight o'clock on the following morning the Scouts assembled at
the Sea Scouts Hall, as their clubroom was called.

The daily routine consisted of hoisting the ensign, cleaning out the
hall, scrubbing and smartening up the dinghy and her gear, and
finally airing sails and "turning over" the motor of the _Puffin_,
the Aberstour Sea Scouts' eight-ton auxiliary cutter.

Then, in ordinary circumstances, the patrol on duty went away on a
short cruise, while the rest of the Sea Scouts amused themselves as
best they could, since it was out of the question to stow
twenty-four growing lads on an eight-tonner except in relays.

But this was no ordinary circumstance. The Scoutmaster, Mr. Grant,
had been called away on urgent business, and without him, or another
responsible "grown-up," the Sea Scouts were not allowed to put to
sea.

It was disappointing, but being Scouts they kept smiling.

"I had a letter from Mr. Grant this morning," announced Frank
Brandon, Patrol-leader of the Otters, a hefty, sun-burned youth of
eighteen, who in addition to being an excellent swimmer was a boxer
of no mean prowess. "He says he cannot possibly get back before next
Tuesday."

This time the Otters did not smile. Instead of being deprived of
their trip in the _Puffin_ until Friday, it meant that their turn
would not come round again before half of the next week had passed.

"But," continued the Patrol-leader, "that's only half the news.
Cheer up!"

"Well, what is it?" inquired Phillips.

Brandon tapped the pocket of his jersey.

"It'll keep," he replied tantalisingly. "Now then, boys, look alive
and get the job done! We want the place to look extra smart to-day."

This was a hint that there was something in the wind. For the next
half-hour the Sea Scouts--Patrol-leader included--worked like
galley-slaves.

When they had done, Brandon pinned the Scoutmaster's letter to the
notice-board. The Sea Scouts crowded round eagerly.

This is what they read:--
                                        The Croft,
                                           Sablesham,
                                              17th December.

DEAR LADS,

I am sorry, but all efforts on my part to get back on Friday have
been futile. The business upon which I am engaged cannot be settled
before Tuesday at the earliest.

However, as I know you want to get afloat, a friend of mine, Mr.
George Gregory, has kindly promised to take my place. He is
Scoutmaster of the 2nd Sablesham Troop. I hope you'll be able to
show him that the Aberstour Sea Scouts are at least as smart as his.

Mr. Gregory is arriving by the 1.15 train. He tells me that he will
be quite content with the accomodation on board the _Puffin_, and
will sleep on board while he is at Aberstour.

Cheerio,
                          Yours Sea Scoutingly,
                                        THEO. GRANT.

"Wonder what he'll be like?" asked Hopcroft.

"Not a patch on our Scoutmaster," declared Carline loyally. "But
we'll do all we can to help him."

"I shouldn't be surprised----" began Peter Craddock.

"Surprised what?" inquired Patrol-leader Brandon.

"Nothing much, Frank," replied Peter. "A fellow spoke to me on the
pier yesterday. He wanted to see Mr. Grant. Perhaps he was Mr.
Gregory."

"If so, you'll soon be able to make sure," rejoined the
Patrol-leader. "Now, let's get on board and get the _Puffin_ ready."

This took some time. The yacht had to be provisioned for the day's
cruise, or rather with enough water and food for three days, this
being one of Mr. Grant's precautions in the event of the yacht
encountering bad weather that prevented her from returning to her
home port. The petrol tank had to be filled, running gear
overhauled, and sails hoisted. By this time it was nearly twelve
o'clock.




CHAPTER II

A LONG PASSAGE


AT the appointed time Scoutmaster Gregory arrived. He was a man of
about thirty years of age, of medium height and of slim build. He
had cheerful, open features and a jovial manner.

Craddock saw at a glance that he bore not the slightest resemblance
to the individual who had spoken to him on the pier.

The Scoutmaster travelled light. His luggage consisted of a small
handbag and a haversack.

"Quite a smart little craft," exclaimed Mr. Gregory as they embarked
in the dinghy. "Eight tons! Why, you could go almost anywhere in
her. Our yacht is only about half that tonnage, and we've been as
far as Cornwall and the Norfolk coast. Had lunch yet? No? Neither
have I. But we'll get under way and grub as soon as we are clear of
the harbour."

This suggestion was met with unqualified approval. The Sea Scouts
were not ones to let a meal stand in the way when there was chance
to get an extra hour afloat.

Very quickly they decided that Mr. Gregory was a jolly decent
sort--one of the highest qualifications that boys can bestow upon
"grown-ups." He was quick to express approval and keen to notice any
act of smartness on the part of the youthful crew.

He knew his job, too. The way he worked the _Puffin_ out of the
narrow harbour, as if he had been used to her for years, proved
that. It was also evident to the crew that he knew the approach
channel, which was none too well buoyed, for without once referring
to the chart or asking for information, he edged the yacht well to
wind'ard of the Medlar Shoal and gained the open sea.

"Here, take her!" he exclaimed, signing to Phillips to take over the
tiller. "Course Test by South. We'll run as far as Otherport and
beat back. How about grub, you fellows?"

The suggestion met with approval, and forthwith they "tucked in," at
the same time keeping up a lively flow of chatter.

Presently the conversation turned to the subject of smuggling.

"There's not much of that done nowadays," remarked the deputy
Scoutmaster. "The coastguards and custom-house people are far too
smart. The game isn't worth the candle, apart from the dishonesty of
the whole business. Yet only the other day there was an attempt to
run a cargo at Sablesham, where I live. A. vessel from France came
into harbour and unloaded part of her cargo. Amongst it were half a
dozen cases of boots consigned to one of the leading tradesmen in
the town--the mayor, in fact. He knew nothing about them--hadn't
ordered them. But he paid freightage and duty and took delivery.
When the cases were opened they were found to contain--what?"

"Tobacco," suggested Carline.

"Hardly," replied Mr. Gregory with a smile. "The cases contained
boots and shoes, but they were all lefts."

"Not much good to anybody, then," remarked Phillips.

"So the mayor thought," continued Mr. Gregory. "There was nothing to
show where the consignment came from, and as the vessel had left
they couldn't be put on board again. So after a while they were sold
by auction. Some fellow from London, a total stranger, bought them
for less than the mayor had paid for freightage."

"Then where did the smuggling come in?" asked the Patrol-leader. "It
was all done openly."

"It was," agreed Mr. Gregory. "But the Customs people 'smelt a rat.'
Before the stranger from London could remove his purchases one of
the Customs officers picked up a shoe and knocked the heel off. It
was a hollow heel, and inside was a Swiss watch. The Londoner was
one of a gang. He got away, but he must have lost a lot of money,
for every one of the odd shoes had a watch hidden inside the heel."

During the whole of the afternoon the _Puffin_ held on her course.
It was one of those delightful, whole mainsail breezes, sufficient
to keep the lee rail steadily awash.

At five o'clock Otherport was about two miles away on the starboard
bow. The wind was falling light, but Mr. Gregory gave no sign that
he had noticed the fact, yet the crew knew perfectly well that on
the homeward beat they would have a two-knot tide to run against.

Half an hour later the yacht was abreast of the harbour piers. The
Deputy Scoutmaster brought his glasses to bear upon the crowded
port.

"H'm," he ejaculated. "I don't think we'll put in. It's later than I
thought, lads. Ready about--lee-ho."

The head-sail sheets were let fly, mainsheet hauled in and the helm
put down. The _Puffin_ went about and settled down on her dead beat
to wind'ard.

"She's not making much, sir," remarked Brandon. "We've hardly gained
on those two leading marks."

"Foul tide," explained Mr. Gregory. "We'll keep her on this tack and
stand out to sea. We won't feel the tide so much farther out."

He glanced at his watch and then looked aloft at the fluttering
burgee.

"Wind dropping, too," he observed. "No matter. If there's a flat
calm we've the motor to fall back upon. Now, you fellows, how about
tea?"

The meal over and the things stowed away the Sea Scouts gathered in
the cock-pit and listened to yarns from their entertaining Acting
Scoutmaster.

Lower and lower sank the sun, like a ball of fire in a red sky. The
sails flapped and finally hung idly in the still air. The sea,
unruffled, seemed a blaze of crimson.

"Nine o'clock," announced Mr. Gregory. "We'll be a bit late in
getting back to our moorings, I fancy. But the glass is high and
steady, and the air's warm. We'd better start that engine, or with
the tide against us we'll be losing instead of gaining ground."

By the aid of an electric torch--for the engine-room under the
water-tight cockpit was in darkness--Craddock turned on the petrol,
adjusted the ignition and flooded the carburettor.

"All ready!" he shouted.

The starting-handle was in the cockpit with a chain drive to the
crank-shaft passing through a raised hatch. At the word that all was
in order the Patrol-leader gave the handle a vigorous swing.

It was well for him that he had grasped the handle properly and with
due regard to "Safety First." That is to say, he kept his thumb
underneath the handle and applied the grip by means of his fingers
only.

The motor gave a terrific backfire, the handle flying off and
narrowly missing Brandon's face. Fortunately it fell inboard.

"Be careful," cautioned Mr. Gregory.

"Never known her to do that before," declared the Patrol-leader.
"Retard her still more, Peter."

"Can't," was the reply from below. "Mag's as far back as it will
go."

Undaunted, Brandon made another attempt, with precisely the same
result.

"Someone's been----" began Craddock, then, reining in his thoughts,
he exclaimed, "Timing's slipped, Frank. Hang on a minute, I'll see
if I can adjust it."

"Better not," objected the Deputy Scoutmaster. "It's a tricky
business in a bad light. There's a faint breeze springing up."

"I can do it, sir," persisted Craddock.

"All right. Carry on, but be careful not to lose any of the parts."
Lying on his side with his feet curled up, for the engine-room was
cramped and awkwardly shaped, Peter tackled his self-imposed job.
Altogether it took him the best part of half an hour.

"We're gaining now," declared Mr. Gregory. "Tide's easing a lot.
Keep your eyes skinned, you fellows, and see if you can pick up
Oldbury Head Light."

"Engine ought to be all right now, sir," reported Peter. "Shall we
start her up and stow canvas?"

"Start her up by all means, but we'll keep the sails set and beat to
wind'ard with the motor to help us. One long tack to seaward ought
to do the trick."

This time the motor fired easily.

Midnight found the _Puffin_, on the port tack at least ten miles
from shore. A slight haze had completely dimmed the powerful light
on Oldbury Head, while the lights of Aberstour were quite invisible.

"Green light on the port bow, sir!" reported Wilson. "She keeps
clear of us, doesn't she, sir?"

"Think again," said Mr. Gregory.

Whilst Wilson did think Phillips exclaimed: "I know, sir. She's not
a steamer, 'cause there's no masthead light. We are, although we're
under sail."

"Quite right," replied Mr Gregory. "At sea a motor vessel rates as a
steamer. Wind's dropping again. Get the canvas down, lads; we'll
carry on under motor alone."

The work of lowering sails was quickly performed.

"Hello, sir!" exclaimed Brandon. "Signalling?"

"Yes," replied Mr. Gregory. "That vessel has been signalling to us
while you were lowering sails. She wants something; we'll run
alongside. Mind the dinghy, one of you, if we have to go astern.
Fenders out on the starboard side."

The Sea Scouts obeyed with alacrity. A midnight meeting with another
craft was something out of the ordinary.

"What does she want, sir?" inquired Wilson and Carline.

"That I can't say," replied Mr. Gregory. "She may be in
distress--sprung a leak, short of water, or half a dozen other
causes. We'll soon see. Stand by with the reverse gear, Phillips.
Ease her down a bit."

The strange vessel was now looming in the starlight. She was a craft
of about fifty tons, ketch-rigged with dark sails.

"Ahoy!" shouted a deep voice. "What craft is that?"

"Yacht _Puffin_, of Aberstour," replied the Patrol-leader.

"Can you take letters ashore for us?" continued the man. "We're
three days out from Lowestoft and are bound for Falmouth. No wind
and too far to send our boat ashore," he added in support of his
request.

"Righto!" shouted Mr. Gregory. "We'll run alongside."

In a few minutes the _Puffin_ was made fast to the stranger's lee
quarter, and a small brown paper parcel and about half-a-dozen
letters were handed to Mr. Gregory.

"That's all, sir, and thank you," said the skipper of the big yacht.
"And if we owe you anything----"

"Not at all," replied Mr. Gregory. "We're Sea Scouts and only too
glad to do Good Turns. Let go, please! Touch ahead, Phillips."




CHAPTER III

"LET ME OUT, OR----"


AN hour later and the leading lights of Aberstour Harbour were
sighted at a distance of about four miles.

Brandon was now at the helm. Craddock was on deck for'ard thinking
deeply. The rest of the Sea Scouts were either in the cockpit or
seated on the cabin-top. Mr. Gregory was below making up his bunk,
for he alone of the crew was to sleep on board. The others,
according to previous arrangements, were to turn in at the Scouts'
Hall, since it was too late for them to disturb their respective
parents.

The _Puffin_ was no longer alone. Several of the Aberstour fishing
fleet were making for home in order to land their catches in time
for market. Most of the boats were fitted with motors, and those
which did not possess such a useful means of propulsion were being
towed in. Fishermen, like Scouts, are members of a brotherhood in
which Good Turns are the order of the day---and night.

Suddenly a jar shook the _Puffin_. Peter jumped up and ran aft.

"All right, you fellows!" he exclaimed and dived into the cabin.

"What was that?" inquired Mr. Gregory, still struggling with
blankets that obstinately refused to come out of a stiff kit-bag.

"Hit something, sir," replied Craddock; "bit of wreckage. I'll look
for'ard."

Lighting a hurricane lamp Peter crawled through the small sliding
doorway between the cabin and the fo'c'sle.

"I think she must have strained a plank," he reported breathlessly.
"Come and have a look, sir."

Mr. Gregory dropped the kit-bag. Peter stood aside to let him gain
the fo'c'sle.

"Can't see or hear any water coming in," said Mr. Gregory, after a
brief examination. "It must be the lap of the waves outside, or----"

The thud of the sliding door being hurriedly slammed interrupted his
words. He turned to find himself alone. Simultaneously the click of
the lock informed him the door was not only shut, but secured. He
tried the fore-hatch. Not only was it in place, but it was held down
by a strong metal bar padlocked to the deck.

"Brandon, come below a minute!" exclaimed Peter.

The Patrol-leader, alarmed by Craddock's earnest tones, handed the
tiller to Carline and gained the cabin.

"I've locked him in," announced Peter.

"What for?" demanded the perplexed Brandon.

"'Cause he's a wrong 'un," was the astonishing reply. "He's not a
Scoutmaster. He's a smuggler. That stuff we took off that boat is
cocaine. He tried to fool us with a forged letter from Mr. Grant; he
jiggered the motor so as to keep us out at sea till midnight,
and----"

"Enough of that silly joking, Craddock!" came the voice of the
prisoner through the bulkhead. "Open the door at once."

Peter made no reply.

"I couldn't warn you before, Frank," he continued, addressing the
Patrol-leader. "If I'm wrong I'll take all responsibility, anyway.
There's another thing. While we were stowing canvas he was
signalling to the strange vessel. It wasn't Morse. I could have read
it if it were, as you know, and their reply wasn't Morse either. It
was a secret code."

"For the last time, Craddock," shouted the captive angrily, "open
that door."

"Sorry, but you must stay there until we get into port," said the
Patrol-leader, answering for Peter.

"I'll give you thirty seconds," continued the Scoutmaster. "If by
that time I'm not released I'll blow the lock off. I'm armed, I
might warn you."

"Don't add attempted murder to smuggling," responded Brandon. "You
can't tackle eight of us even if you do get out."

A tremendous thudding announced that the prisoner was attempting to
push the door down with his shoulder.

"'Spose he breaks out?" asked Peter dubiously.

"I'll tackle him," replied the Patrol-leader with easy confidence.
"He daren't shoot, even if he has a revolver, and I guess I'll knock
him out if it comes to fists. Cut on deck, Peter, and take charge.
Warn the others and tell a couple of them to keep an eye on the
fore-hatch. Signal the Customs Watch-house and tell them."




CHAPTER IV

THE MIS-SPELT WORD


IT was half-past two in the morning when the _Puffin_ glided in
between the pierheads. Craddock made no attempt to steer for the
moorings. He ran the boat alongside the West Pier, the tide being
almost full.

There on the jetty was Scoutmaster Grant, together with half-a-dozen
Customs Officers and a couple of policemen.

"You got my telegram, sir?" said Peter.

"Rather," replied Mr. Grant. "It puzzled me. I know no one of the
name of Gregory."

"You will soon, sir," was the rejoinder. "We've got him safely
locked up in the fo'c'sle."

Soon the little _Puffin_ was packed. Before attempting to open the
fo'c'sle hatch the Customs Officers took possession of the letters
and parcel received from the mysterious yacht. There, sure enough,
was sufficient evidence--pure cocaine worth at least a couple of
thousand pounds.

Then the fore-hatch was uncovered.

"Come on, Mr. Gregory," exclaimed one of the Customs officials
coaxingly. "Let's have a look at you."

Gregory came out as tamely as a lamb. He was wise enough to
recognise the futility of resistance.

In a trice he was handcuffed. A deft search revealed no signs of a
firearm, nor did a subsequent examination of the fo'c'sle lead to
the discovery of a pistol.

"I must ask you two lads to come with me to the station-as a mere
matter of form," said the police-sergeant, addressing Brandon and
Craddock.

"I'll come with you," added Mr. Grant. "You others turn in as soon
as you can."

  * * * *

Surrounded by his captors, the prisoner was escorted along the
almost deserted High Street, Mr. Grant and the two Sea Scouts
following at a distance. A few fishermen and market porters formed
the sightseeing part of the procession.

About a couple of hundred yards up the street was a closed-in motor
with the headlights switched on, and the engine softly "ticking
over."

Suddenly the prisoner gave a shrill whistle.

The car bounded forward, turned abruptly and fled to the
accompaniment of loud blasts on the policeman's whistle.

Then the car disappeared round a corner. A second or two later came
the sound of an appalling crash.

"Smash!" exclaimed Mr. Grant. "Run, you fellows."

The Scoutmaster and the two Sea Scouts broke into a run. As they
turned the corner they saw that the car had crashed end-on into a
stationary lorry and was already well ablaze.

Lying inertly on the pavement with his head touching the base of a
lamp-post was the luckless driver of the car, stunned and
considerably cut about the head by the broken glass of the
windscreen.

Deftly the Sea Scouts rendered First Aid, then, detaching the
tailboard of the lorry, they placed the injured man upon it and
carried him to the hospital, which was only about a hundred yards
from the scene of the accident.

Having furnished the police inspector with the required information
they accompanied Mr. Grant back to the harbour.

Day was breaking by the time the now weary-eyed but excited lads had
completed their task of mooring up their boat, and at the
Scoutmaster's invitation they went back to his house for a very
early breakfast.

"That fellow who got smashed up," said Peter during the course of
the meal, "was the one who spoke to me while I was fishing on the
pier yesterday--or, rather, the day before yesterday."

"Then that was what aroused your suspicions," remarked Mr. Grant.

Craddock shook his head.

"No, sir," he replied. "I never connected the two until an hour ago.
He pumped me properly, though. Asked particulars about you and all
that. I can see it now."

"Then what did?" persisted Mr. Grant.

"The letter, sir, that was supposed to have been written by you."

"Oh, and how's that?"

"Do you remember about a week ago, sir, when we wrote off about a
new accommodation-ladder for the _Puffin_? I spelt 'accommodation'
with one 'm' and you told me about it. Well, in that forged letter
the same word occurred and it had only one 'm.' That was enough to
start on. So I telegraphed to you. And then I just kept my eyes
open----"

"As a Sea Scout should," added Mr. Grant.

"But I can't much longer, sir," rejoined Peter with another yawn.




CHAPTER V

THE PERIL IN THE FAIRWAY


"THIS has been a dud cruise, if you like!" observed Patrol-leader
Brandon to his particular chum, Craddock. "Mind, I'm not saying that
it hasn't been awfully enjoyable, but nothing's happened."

"Do you want anything to happen?" asked Peter. "I don't. I'm quite
content to take things as they are in the _Puffin_."

All the same the weekly cruise had been uneventful. The _Puffin_ had
stood well out into the Channel, and after beating to the westward
had put into Crabhaven for the night. She was now on her way back to
Aberstour, running with spinnaker set and mainsheet slacked right
out before a gentle sou'westerly breeze.

Nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. The Sea Scouts' log
contained no entries beyond the customary records of the state of
the tide and the force and direction of the wind. They hadn't had to
reef; they hadn't missed their tide; they hadn't even run aground on
making the intricate entrance to Crabhaven. They were now within
five miles of their home-port, and dead in the centre of the fairway
between the grey cliffs to port and the submerged shoal known as the
Grab to starboard. With a fair wind and tide there was every reason
to expect that the remaining five miles would be reeled off in quick
time and without incident.

"Those fellows are a time having their tea," commented Peter, as the
sound of chattering voices came from the cabin where the rest of the
crew were doing full justice to good fare with their healthy
appetites. "Aren't you peckish, Frank?"

"Just about," agreed the Patrol-leader. "But I'd rather hang on to
the tiller than waste time over grub. Hello! Wind's dropping. Does
it mean we'll have to sweep the yacht the rest of the way?"

The breeze was certainly falling off. Already the _Puffin's_
mainsheet was dropping in the water, and her spinnaker was no longer
curving before the following wind. Yet she was still making way and
answering to her helm.

"What's that right ahead, old son?" asked Peter, pointing in a line
with the bowsprit end.

"What's what?" rejoined his chum. "I can't see anything."

"It's less than twenty yards away. Up helm a bit, or we'll hit it.
Looks like a water-logged barrel."

Brandon altered the helm a little. Peter grasped a boathook.

The object drifted slowly past the yacht's side. The slight
alteration of course had enabled her to clear it by about five or
six feet. Craddock was about to satisfy his curiosity by prodding it
with the tip of the boathook when Brandon grasped him by the wrist.

"Hold on!" he exclaimed earnestly. "Be careful! It's a mine."

Before the astonished Craddock could offer any comment the
Patrol-leader called to Mr. Grant to come on deck.

The Scoutmaster appeared promptly, followed by the rest of the crew,
who, judging rightly by the Patrol-leader's anxious tone, were
anxious to know the reason for the urgent summons.

"A mine, sir!" reported Brandon.

"By Jove, yes!" agreed Mr. Grant. "We've only just missed it."

The sinister object had evidently been under water for years. Its
globular shape was thickly encrusted with barnacles and seaweed.
Only a small portion of it was above the surface, but even that
relatively diminutive part displayed a pair of aggressive-looking
horns. These, composed of brittle material, had only to be fractured
and the explosive contents of the mine would be detonated.

"Right in the fairway," remarked Peter.

"Yes," agreed the Scoutmaster. "Right in the line of shipping. It's
up to us, lads, to do our best to scotch it. Carline and Phillips!
You two keep aft and watch that mine. Don't lose its position
whatever you do! Now, lads, down spinnaker! Smartly, now!"

The huge light triangular sail was lowered and unbent in
double-quick time, and the spinnaker-boom topped-up into its usual
place.

"Down helm!" ordered Mr. Grant. "Mainsheet home! Stand by
headsheets!"

The _Puffin_ came round slowly yet surely into the wind,
close-hauled on the starboard tack.

"How does the mine bear?" asked the Scoutmaster.

"Two points on our starboard bow, sir," replied Carline.

"Good!" continued Mr. Grant. "Now, lads, listen! We've got to buoy
that mine. We can't tow it. That's too risky, because the thing
might go up and us with it. On the other hand it might not, since
it's probably been under water for eight or nine years. Last week's
gale parted it from its moorings, I should imagine. Lee-o! We'll
beat up to it as close as we dare."

As soon as the _Puffin_ had settled on the other tack, Mr. Grant
continued:--

"Get up one of our water-beakers and empty it, Brandon. You, Talbot,
get Letter B flag from the signal locker, and lash it to the
boathook staff. Now, Peter, you're a splendid swimmer. Are you
willing to run a possible risk? Good, you are! Off with your things,
then. You and I are going for a swim."

Scoutmaster and scout began to divest themselves of their clothing.
Meanwhile the boathook staff with the red swallow-tail flag
attached, had been thrust into the bung-hole of the now empty
beaker. A length of stout rope was bent to the barrel and coiled up
ready for further use.

The _Puffin_ was now hove-to at about fifty yards from the drifting
mine. Mr. Grant and Craddock dived overboard. The beaker was dropped
into the water, and the two swimmers, towing their make-shift
mark-buoy, made for the mine.

"Near enough!" announced the Scoutmaster. "Keep the buoy as she is,
Peter. Don't let it bump alongside, whatever you do. I'm going to
dive."

Taking the slack of the rope, Mr. Grant approached to within a few
feet of the mine, and disappeared from view. Ahead, and at about six
feet underneath the sinister object, he saw what he hoped would be
there--a length of rusty iron chain secured to a ring at the base of
the mine.

Working rapidly, yet with extreme caution, he bent the end of the
line to one of the links of the chain; then, striking out until he
was well clear of that barnacle-encrusted menace, he broke surface.

"All secure!" he spluttered. "Let's hope the buoy won't bump before
we're well away. Strike out, Peter."

Both swam their hardest. Breathlessly they clambered over the
yacht's side, and without loss of time the _Puffin_ gathered way and
drew clear of the danger zone. Peter and his Scoutmaster went below
to dress.

As soon as possible they regained the cockpit. Brandon was keeping
the yacht tacking at about a quarter of a mile from the square of
red bunting that indicated the position of the now invisible menace.

"Now for a little signal-practice," said Mr. Grant briskly. "Where's
the Code Book. Let's hope our letter B won't be required."

The _Puffin_ was within visual signalling distance of Dungale
coastguard station. Her signal, reporting the presence of a floating
mine was seen and acknowledged.

"We may as well hang on and see the fun," observed Mr. Grant, and
the suggestion met with unanimous approval.

Within half-an-hour the fishery protection gunboat appeared upon the
scene, and the highly interested Sea Scouts watched the proceedings
with zest.

The gunboat opened fire with rifles and a machine-gun. The red
signal flag disappeared as if by magic. All around the spot the
water was churned by the hail of bullets. Yet the mine did not
explode.

"Probably a dud," commented Brandon when the firing ceased. "They've
sunk it, more than likely."

But after a brief interval the gunboat reopened fire. Suddenly a
huge column of water was flung high in the air, to be followed
almost immediately by the terrific crash of the explosion.

"Good-bye to our beaker, boathook and signal-flag," remarked Peter.

"Lost in a thundering good cause," added the Scoutmaster gravely.
"Now, lads! up helm. We've got to look slippy if we're to save our
tide!"




CHAPTER VI

TO SCUTTLE HIS SHIP


"I DON'T understand, sir," stammered Captain Josiah Quelch, fumbling
with the peak of his cap.

"You don't understand," repeated Mr. Fiandersole, head of the
shipping firm that bore his name. "You don't understand, eh? Do you
want me to put the proposition any plainer? I don't think there's
need for that, Captain Quelch."

There was silence for a few moments. Through the heavily curtained
door of Mr. Fiandersole's private office came the clicking of half a
dozen typewriters.

"It's no use trying to hedge," continued the head director crisply.
"You've got to do and do it promptly--this voyage, in fact. I
needn't recall to your mind a certain incident----"

"No, sir, you needn't," rejoined the agitated captain. "You've got
me fairly on my knees."

"And I jolly well mean to keep you there!" snarled Mr. Fiandersole.
"After all's said and done, you benefit. Play me false and you'll
get seven years on that other count. And you can't round on me,
Captain Quelch. What passes between us is without witnesses, and my
word is as good as yours--better, if it comes to a court of law."

"But my certificate, sir," protested the other.

"Your certificate will be safe, provided you don't bungle. And
there's a cool three thousand pounds, although I presume some of
that will have to be shared out. That's your affair. I don't want to
know anything about that. If you fail you're sacked--understand
that. And if you open your mouth, my man, remember what I threatened
just now. But it's no use beating about the bush--do it."

"Very good, sir," agreed Captain Quelch.

"That's much better, Captain!" exclaimed Mr. Fiandersole cordially.
"In deep water, mind--and no loss of life."

  * * * * * * * *

Twenty-four hours later Captain Josiah Quelch, having dropped the
pilot off the Forelands, was well on his way down Channel.

He was far from being in a happy state of mind. For one thing, the
s.s. _Getalong_ was in a thick fog. For another, the old tramp was in
a decidedly unseaworthy condition. It was a mystery how the Board of
Trade ever passed her on the last survey, or how the underwriters
had been persuaded to insure her for sixty thousand pounds. But what
weighed most heavily upon the captain's mind was the knowledge that
by some means or other the _Getalong_ must not reach port again.

"What's the matter with the Old Man, Bill?" inquired the
quartermaster, as for the tenth time in half an hour Captain Quelch
walked to the weather-side of the bridge and leant over the rails.
"Wot 'e expects to see alongside licks me."

A long-drawn wail from the distant shore was borne faintly to the
ears of the men on the bridge.

"That's Oldbury Head, Mr. Stevens," remarked Captain Quelch,
addressing the second officer. "Ease her off a point. We can't run
risks in a fog like this."

"Ay, ay, sir," replied the second officer, although he could not
account for his superior's excess of caution. Already on the course
set, the _Getalong_ would be well clear of all headlands until abreast
of St. Catherine's.

With her syren going at frequent intervals, the old tramp wallowed
through the mirk of grey, oily sea and grey, clammy fog. Once or
twice a foghorn was heard bleating feebly, but not sufficiently near
to be considered dangerous.

Again the skipper approached the charthouse, peered at the clock and
shuffled to the weather-side of the bridge.

Suddenly the old tramp quivered and appeared to come to a dead stop.
Then with an equally abrupt jerk she forged ahead again.

"What's that, Mr. Stevens?" shouted the captain. "Don't say we've
run something down?"

"Fo'c'sle there!" hailed the second officer. "Anything under our
bows?"

"Nothing, sir," came a husky voice from the invisible fo'c'sle.

"Bit of wreckage, perhaps, sir," suggested Stevens. "Hope she hasn't
started a plate--they're none too sound."

"Tell the carpenter to try the well," ordered Captain Quelch.
"No--better go yourself, Mr. Stevens. Look alive."

The second officer descended the bridge ladder and went below. In a
couple of minutes he was back again.

"She's sprung a leak, sir," he reported breathlessly. "It's pouring
in like a sluice."

Before the skipper could make any observation concerning a
circumstance that had occasioned him not the slightest surprise, the
chief engineer appeared.

"We've done it this time, Cap'n Quelch," he bawled. "Water's over
the engine beds. I'll have to shut off steam."

"No chance of plugging the hole?" inquired the Old Man.

"Not the slightest," replied the chief. "Even if we could get at it.
It's my belief the bottom's knocked clean out of her."

"Clear away the boats," shouted the Old Man. "Look alive, there."

By this time the firemen were on deck; apparently the engine-room
and the boiler-rooms were no longer tenable.

But the chief engineer went back to his post leisurely enough when
out of sight. He rather prided himself upon the success of his part
of the scheme, which consisted of opening one of the underwater
valves and then reversing the engines so suddenly that the terrific
strain had created the impression that the old tramp had bumped into
something pretty hard and substantial.

Anyway, the chief engineer had done his bit in the dirty piece of
work, and salved the remaining rags of an easy conscience by the
fact that he would soon be the richer to the tune of a couple of
hundred pounds.

Having shut off steam, the chief picked up a small leather handbag,
packed with considerable care and forethought a few hours
previously, and returned on deck. Already most of the crew were in
the boats.

Captain Quelch, likewise equipped with a handbag, and with the
ship's papers under his arm, was acting up to the time-honoured
traditions of the British Mercantile Marine--to be the last to quit
the sinking ship.

"She's not going very fast," he said in an undertone to the chief
engineer.

"Man, she'll not last five minutes," was the reassuring reply, as
the chief threw one leg over the rail and dropped into a boat
alongside.

The Old Man, giving a final glance around, followed his example.

"Give way, lads, smartly!" he exclaimed. "Se's going."

The boat pushed off, the Old Man steering her towards the others,
which were barely discernible in the fog.

"Keep together," he ordered. "Got a compass in your boat, Mr.
Baldock?"

"Ay, ay, sir," replied the chief officer.

"Then course N. by E.," ordered the captain. "We'll make for
Aberstour. 'Tis but a couple of hours' pulling at most."




CHAPTER VII

THROUGH THE FOG BANK


"WE'LL have that jack-yarder aloft, lads!" exclaimed Scoutmaster
Grant as the yacht _Puffin_ cleared the entrance to Aberstour
Harbour. "It's going to be a fine day and a light wind from the
south'ard."

The Otters were having their turn afloat, and, on the principle that
a voyage is all the more enjoyable if made with a definite object in
view, they had planned a run out to the _Vang_ Lightship with a
consignment of papers and magazines to help liven the monotonous
existence of the lightship's crew.

Quickly the topsail was set. The yacht being "stiff," she could
carry this additional canvas with ease even in a much stronger
breeze. Now she was slipping through the dancing, sunlit water at a
very modest three knots.

"Jolly sight better than sitting in a stuffy court," remarked Peter
Craddock, referring to the recent trial of a certain Harry Benz,
who, under the name of George Gregory, had attempted to smuggle a
quantity of cocaine.

"I didn't like having to give evidence a bit, sir. And it seemed
rough luck that the fellow should get all the punishment and his
pals go scot free."

"A case of honour amongst thieves, I expect," remarked Mr. Grant.
"He wouldn't divulge the names of his accomplices, and apparently
there was a pretty big gang at work."

"I suppose, sir," said Patrol-leader Frank Brandon, "they won't try
to pay us out."

"Hardly," replied the Scoutmaster, shaking his head. "They'll look
upon our part of the business from a level-headed point of view.
They used us as instruments to further their ends--and that without
consulting us. They took their chances and got let down. Revenge
rarely enters into the case as far as an Englishman is concerned,
even amongst rogues."

"Of course, with Spaniards and Italians the case is different. No, I
don't think we have any cause for anxiety on that score. Slack off
that lee runner a bit, Carline. That's right. Now, Peter, another
couple of feet home with that mainsheet."

A couple of hours' run brought the _Puffin_ within hailing distance
of the _Vang_ Lightship. The shipkeepers knew the Sea Scouts and
guessed their errand.

"Coming aboard, sir?" inquired the mate, who happened to be in
charge of the lightship in the absence of the master on shore leave.

"Not to-day, thank you," replied Mr. Grant, noticing that the _Vang_
was riding stern to tide, and was in consequence pitching
considerably. "We've just had our topsides painted. Stand by for
papers."

One of the men produced a landing-net lashed to the end of a
boathook. The _Puffin_, with staysail a-weather, crept slowly under
the lee of the huge, lobster-red hull.

Deftly Brandon transferred the packet of newspapers to the net,
receiving in return a small waterproof bag containing the
lightship's "mail."

"Righto!" shouted Mr. Grant. "We'll post that little lot for you
well before post time. Sheet home, Peter. Up helm, Tom."

"Plenty of time yet, sir," remarked Brandon as the _Puffin_ drew
clear of the securely-moored lightship. "Can't we have a run seaward
and come back on the young flood?"

"Just what I was about to suggest," agreed the Scoutmaster. "The
wind's dropping, I fancy. Plenty of petrol in the tank, I hope?"

"Filled up this morning, sir," was Brandon's reassuring reply.

For the next hour the _Puffin_ held on, her crew basking in the
glorious sunshine. Then, with remarkable suddenness the sun
disappeared in a watery haze, the temperature dropped considerably,
and the crew actually found themselves shivering.

"Fog banking up," announced Mr. Grant. "Luckily we're inside the
steamer track. All we'll have to mind is the cross-Channel traffic
in and out of Aberstour. Put her about, Brandon. Tide's against us
still. If we get closer in-shore we may dodge the worst of it."

The Patrol-leader knew his work. He was well-equipped for his
position. Mr. Grant stood aside, ready to correct or criticise; but
there was no occasion. The yacht ran up into the wind, fell off on
the other tack and gathered way without the faintest hitch.

"Well done, Brandon!" exclaimed Mr. Grant. "I see we shan't escape
the fog. It's banking up on all sides. Now I want you to carry on
and take all necessary precautions."

In a few minutes the _Puffin_ was enshrouded in a thick, clammy bank
of vapour. At times it was impossible to see the bowsprit-end from
the cockpit. The wind, too, had dropped until the saturated canvas
was barely drawing.

Meanwhile Brandon had told off Phillips to go for'ard as look-out;
Wilson was instructed to stand by with the fog-horn; Hopcroft was
given the hand-lead with instructions to sound occasionally, while
the rest of the crew were to tend sheets and runners, should it be
necessary to "go about."

"There's a foghorn, sir," announced Phillips after twenty minutes
had elapsed since the arrival of the fog. "Two blasts--that's a
sailing vessel on the port tack."

"How does the sound bear?" asked the Patrol-leader.

"On our starboard bow," replied Phillips.

"I thought it was on our port bow!" exclaimed Hopcroft.

"No fear, it was there!" declared Carline, pointing over the yacht's
starboard quarter. "Wasn't it, sir?"

Thus appealed to, Mr. Grant had to confess that he was unable to
say.

"Wait another minute and you'll hear it again," he added. "Sound
plays strange pranks in a fog. Keep our horn going, Wilson; one
blast at a time 'cause we're on the starboard tack."

The blare of the stranger's fog-horn grew louder and louder. Still
there was no definite indication of the direction from which the
sound came. Then a cock crew loudly and brazenly.

"We aren't near land already!" exclaimed Carline.

"No," replied the Scoutmaster. "That shows that the vessel's a
fairly large one, since she carries poultry coops. Give her another
blast, Phillips."

The resounding echoes had hardly died away when the swish of water
from the unseen vessel's bows became unpleasantly audible. Then
through a temporary lifting of the mist, appeared the ghostly
outlines of a huge full-rigged ship.

A hoarse shout given in a foreign tongue resulted in the stranger
porting helm sufficiently to enable her to run under the _Puffin's_
stern. It was a close call, but even in the moment of suspense the
Sea Scouts could not help gazing with admiration at the towering
canvas and graceful outlines of the craft that had narrowly avoided
sending them to the bottom.

"Ohé!" hailed the skipper of the ship. "'Ow ze land bears it?"

"Oldbury Head seven miles nor'-nor'-east," shouted Mr. Grant in
reply.

The captain waved his hand in acknowledgement. The great ship glided
past, giving the Sea Scouts time to read the words, "_Achilles_,
Nantes," on her stern before she was swallowed up in the fog.

"Frenchman!" exclaimed Craddock. "And isn't she shifting, although
there's hardly enough wind to make us answer our helm."

"At any rate, we've done her a Good Turn," remarked Mr. Grant.
"She's going about already. Cautious chap, that skipper. Now,
Hopcroft, try a cast and let's see where we are."

The lead-line showed a depth of seventeen fathoms, while when the
lead was brought on deck the "arming" was thick with fine grey sand.

"Good enough," said the Scoutmaster. "We're still eight miles from
land. I gave that fellow a generous amount of scope, which is on the
safe side. Now, lads, grub. Watch and watch. Starboard watch will
remain on deck while the port watch goes below."

With an appreciative "Ay, ay, sir!" Craddock was about to dive into
the cabin when Symington, who had relieved Phillips in the bows,
suddenly yelled:

"Vessel dead ahead, sir!"




CHAPTER VIII

THE DESERTED STEAMER


THE fog had lifted sufficiently to enable the crew of the _Puffin_
to command a radius of vision of about a hundred yards--and within
that distance was a steamship, bows on.

By the rule of the road at sea it was her place to give way to the
little sailing craft, but she made no effort to do so, neither did
she indicate by a blast on her syren which course she was about to
take.

"Down helm!" shouted Mr. Grant, knowing that a fore-and-aft rigged
vessel will answer more readily with lee than with weather helm.

Round swept the _Puffin_ with an ample margin of safety, for during
the manoeuvre the Scoutmaster noticed that the tramp was not making
way. She was lying almost broadside on to the wind, with her bows
high out of the water.

It struck the Sea Scouts as being a strange state of affairs. The
steam-vessel's anchors were hove close up to the hawsepipes, showing
that she had not brought up, a thin wisp of fleecy white vapour was
issuing from her steampipe; yet her bridge appeared to be deserted.

Then, as the yacht passed to wind'ard the Sea Scouts were quick to
notice another peculiarity. The tramp's quarter boats had been
lowered hurriedly, as the swaying falls with their lower blocks
violently crashing against her sides with every roll of the vessel
indicated.

No self-respecting skipper would send away a boat without ordering
those of the crew who remained on board to secure the davit gear.

"She's been abandoned," declared Phillips.

"And she's sinking," added Talbot.

All eyes on board the _Puffin_ were watching the mysterious tramp as
the yacht moved slowly past the former's port side. The vessel's
bows were well up and the stern correspondingly depressed.

Already the water, fortunately calm, was level with the scuttles in
her quarter; yet she showed no tendency to list.

"No closer," cautioned Mr. Grant to Brandon at the tiller. "Round-to
well away from her stern and let's see her name."

The Patrol-leader carried out his instructions, and the crew saw the
letters, "_Getalong_, London," painted on her rounded stern.

"She's not getting along, is she?" whispered Carline.

"Unless it's to the bottom of the sea," added Hopcroft, rather
awestruck at the thought that an apparently seaworthy ship was
doomed. "Will it be safe to watch her go, sir?"

The Scoutmaster did not reply. He was thinking deeply over a
puzzling problem. Here was a steam vessel abandoned. There were no
evidences of her having been in collision. Her fires were still in.

Outwardly there was nothing to suggest a disaster, save for the ship
being deep down aft. Yet she did not appear to be foundering
rapidly. As far as he could judge she had not sunk another six
inches during the last five or ten minutes.

A desire to render assistance, coupled with pardonable curiosity,
prompted Mr. Grant to board her. On the other hand caution urged him
to keep away. He was responsible for the lives of his youthful crew,
and on that account he hesitated.

"I wonder if she is abandoned?" remarked Brandon. "Suppose there are
people on board--gassed, injured, or something like that? Oughtn't
we to make sure, sir?"

"Stow canvas and start up!" ordered Mr. Grant laconically.

Quickly the sails were lowered and temporarily stowed. Craddock
hurried below to prepare the motor for starting. In five minutes the
_Puffin_, under power but with the clutch in neutral, was almost
motionless within fifty yards of the _Getalong's_ starboard quarter.

"Now, lads!" exclaimed the Scoutmaster earnestly. "Listen. I'm going
to board her. Brandon, you will remain here and keep the yacht
going, but don't close the ship--keep your distance. At the same
time don't lose sight of her.

"Craddock and Phillips, you can come with me in the dinghy, but
directly I jump aboard push off and lay-to. If that vessel does make
a sudden plunge pull away for all you're worth. I'll have to take my
chance of getting clear, but I don't fancy she will. Get the dinghy
alongside, Peter."




CHAPTER IX

TOWED INTO PORT


IT cannot truthfully be recorded that Craddock and Phillips were
cool and collected--they weren't. It would be difficult to describe
their true feelings.

They were excited at entering upon this strange adventure, and a bit
scared as to the possible results. On the other hand they had
implicit trust in their Scoutmaster and could be relied upon to
carry out faithfully his instructions.

"Keep your weather eye lifting, Brandon!" exclaimed Mr. Grant, as
the dinghy pushed off from the yacht. "Watch the fog. It may come on
worse."

"Ay, ay, sir," responded the Patrol-leader.

"Way 'nough," ordered the Scoutmaster, as the cockleshell dinghy
approached the tramp. He was now convinced that the abandoned craft
was making little if any water. Her freeboard aft was approximately
the same as when he first took stock of her.

The sea was so calm that the dinghy could lie alongside without
danger or difficulty. Grasping his opportunity Mr. Grant swung
himself on board.

"Righto!" he shouted reassuringly. "Push off and wait until I hail."

The _Getalong_ was rolling slightly and sluggishly, the dull swish of
the water in her hold being plainly audible as he made his way to
the engine-room hatchway.

The air of the compartment was heavy with smoke and steam. For a
moment the Scoutmaster hesitated. Above the sullen swirl of the
imprisoned water he distinctly heard a steady trickle.

"What I expected--only more so," thought Mr. Grant, and without
further ado he switched on his electric torch and descended the
steel ladder.

That the _Getalong_ was a very old type of vessel was apparent by the
fact that she was without water-tight bulkheads. There was a bulkhead
at the after end of the engine-room and at the for'ard end of the
stokehold, but both had sliding doors communicating with the holds.

Water had poured into the engine-room--it was still coming in--and
had run aft owing to the fact that the cargo in the after hold was
much heavier than that stowed for'ard. That accounted for the vessel
being down by the stern.

It did not take Mr. Grant long to discover the leak. A large valve
in the "wings" through which water was normally admitted into the
circulating pumps was wide open, while the joint of the pipe had
been deliberately "broken" by unscrewing the six gun-metal bolts
uniting the flanges.

"Attempted scuttling!" exclaimed the Scoutmaster as he closed the
valve. "That's done the rascals in the eye this time. Can't hear any
more water coming in; but it seems strange that only a little stream
like that has filled her."

Ankle deep in black oily water that swirled over the bedplates, Mr.
Grant groped his way to the stokehold. Here the depth of water was
only a couple of feet. The still burning furnaces, from which hot
cinders were continually dropping, fizzling as they came in contact
with the water, showed that the _Getalong_ had not been long
abandoned.

Thence right for'ard. Here all seemed in order. Beyond the usual
"weeping" of the laps of the hull-plating there was nothing to
indicate a leak.

"Good enough!" exclaimed the Scoutmaster gleefully, as he made his
way on deck.

"She won't sink, lads!" he shouted, as he signalled the dinghy to
close.

"What did you do just now, sir?" inquired Craddock. "We saw
something shoot to the surface, so we pulled towards it. It was a
dead sheep."

"Then that accounts for it," decided Mr. Grant. "There was a regular
torrent coming in through the valve until by a lucky chance the
suction drew that dead sheep. The carcase acted as a valve and
stopped or nearly stopped the inflow. Now it's safe to conclude that
the vessel won't sink."

Mr. Grant looked at the _Puffin_. She was still in about the same
place, and fairly visible in spite of the wreathing fog.

"_Puffin_, ahoy!" he hailed.

"Ay, ay, sir," replied Brandon.

"Close a bit."

"Ay, ay, sir."

The yacht's propeller began to churn, and the _Puffin_ glided gently
to within a dozen yards of the tramp.

"We're going to get that craft into Aberstour, lads," declared the
Scoutmaster.

"Tow her in, sir?" asked Brandon.

"Hardly," replied Mr. Grant. "Our twelve horse-power wouldn't get
her along at more than one mile an hour. The tide would set us well
beyond Oldbury Head before that.

"No; I want you, Brandon, to take the _Puffin_ back to Aberstour.
North by west is the approximate course. Keep your lead going and
mind the Medlar Shoal. When you get there tell Weatherhead, the
master of the tug _Stormcock_, to put out to us at once. Let him know
that the job's worth a hundred or more."

"Ay, ay, sir," replied the Patrol-leader, keenly alive to the
possibilities of sole command.

"And another thing," continued Mr. Grant. "You may pass some boats
making for the shore--boats from this vessel. If they ask for a tow
do so, but on no account must any of you even hint that the _Getalong_
is still afloat."

"And how about you, sir?" inquired the Patrol-leader.

"Craddock, Phillips and I are going to stand by," replied the
Scoutmaster. "There's no danger unless we're run down by another
vessel. Between us I think we can manage all right till the
_Stormcock_ arrives."

The _Puffin_ departed on her errand.

Mr. Grant told the two Scouts to come on board and hoist in the
dinghy.

"Now," he continued briskly. "There's some bilge water to be got rid
of. It's lucky I know something--not much, though--of steam engines.
We'll try getting the donkey engine to work."

Coals were shovelled into the foremost boiler. Slowly but surely the
needle of the pressure gauge rose until the head of steam was
sufficient for the work required.

In less than half an hour the steam bilge-pipes were at work,
throwing huge jets of water over the side, while in a couple of hours
the _Getalong_ was again in her normal trim.


{Illustration: "THE SQUAT LITTLE TUG LOOMED UP, HER CREW AUGMENTED
BY SIXTEEN WILDLY EXCITED SEA SCOUTS."
                                                       [_P_. 61}


That was all that could be done, at least for the time being. A
tedious wait ensued, until Mr. Grant decided that they ought to
anchor.

Hitherto such a precaution was hardly necessary, since the
east-going tide had changed fifty minutes ago and the opposite or
west-going stream was setting the _Getalong_ back to the approximate
position where the _Puffin_ left her.

But before the three "hands" could clear away the cable and release
the compression, a long-drawn wail, followed by four short blasts,
announced that the _Stormcock_ was approaching.

In reply, Craddock gaily tootled the _Getalong's_ syren, until,
grotesquely magnified by the mist, the squat little tug loomed up,
her normal crew augmented by sixteen wildly excited Sea Scouts,
since the Seals and the Eels had prevailed upon the good-natured
Captain Weatherhead to let them "have a look in."

It did not take very long for a stout hawser to be passed on board
the tramp, and by five o'clock the _Getalong_ crossed Aberstour bar on
a falling tide with less than two feet of water under her keel.

"You saw no signs of the crew?" inquired Mr. Grant as he stepped
ashore.

"No, sir," replied Brandon. "The first thing we saw after we left
you--sorry, sir, I didn't mean to suggest that you were a thing--was
the east pier-head of Aberstour. Luck, of course," he added
modestly.

"Just as well, perhaps, that you didn't fall in with the crew,"
commented Mr. Grant. "I think that as soon as the fog lifts we'll go
for a week's cruise, otherwise the best part of our holidays will be
taken up with attending police-courts.

"As a matter of fact it is lifting. Away home, lads, and tell your
people we're off cruising for a few days. With decent luck we ought
to be in Sablesham Harbour before sunset."




CHAPTER X

A SURPRISE--AND AN ARREST


IT was late in the afternoon when the boats of the s.s. _Getalong_
reached the beach seven miles to the east of Aberstour. Captain
Quelch had set the course calculating upon the tide being slack, but
he was ignorant of the fact that on that part of the coast the tide
sets two hours later on shore than it does in the offing.

Consequently instead of making Aberstour, he and his crew found
themselves, much to their disgust, seven miles from the town and the
nearest railway station.

Leaving the boats in charge of a fisherman, Captain Quelch inquired
the way to the nearest village which boasted an inland telegraph
office.

From the latter the Old Man dispatched a wire to Mr. Fiandersole:--

"S.S. _Getalong_ foundered ten miles from Oldbury Head. All hands
saved.--Quelch, Master."

Then, having refreshed themselves, the shipless mariners set out to
trudge to Aberstour. Footsore and hungry they arrived at the
outskirts of the town, their appearance attracting a considerable
amount of attention.

"Where's the harbour master's office, mate?" inquired Captain Quelch
of a fisherman. "And the Sailors' Home, too."

"Up along the quay," was the reply, accompanied by a jerk of a tarry
thumb.

"You can't miss either of 'em."

But, unfortunately for him, Captain Quelch was fated to miss both;
for, on turning the corner of the street leading to the quay he
stood stock still, his eyes nearly leaping out of his head in sheer
amazement.

Nor was the astonishment of his companions much less, for within
fifty yards of them, securely moored, lay the s.s. _Getalong_.

The skipper turned to his partner in crime, the chief engineer.

"You've mucked it, you fool!" he hissed.

"'Pears ye're richt," admitted the still fuddled Aberdonian, as if
it were beneath his dignity to argue over what was an apparent and
obvious fact.

"I'll send the men aboard," continued Quelch. "You an' me had best
hook it. Where's a railway station, my man?" he added, addressing a
clean-shaven man in a blue reefer suit and bowler hat.

"Police station, you mean," was the reply. "This way, Captain
Quelch. I've been looking for you. Let me caution you; any statement
you may make will be used as evidence against you. Are you coming
quietly?"

The procession was reformed. Captain Quelch and the detective led
the way, followed by the chief engineer and another representative
of the law.

The rest of the officers and the crew formed the main body, although
they had no idea why they were invited to inspect the inside of the
Aberstour police station. Three uniformed policemen brought up the
rear, while ahead and on both flanks were dozens of curious
townsfolk.

Once on his way along the quay the arrested captain looked seaward.
A little cutter, outward bound, was passing between the pier-heads.
To a seaman who, more than likely, was to spend the next few years
of his life between stone walls, the sight of that little yacht
raised envious regrets.

"Lucky beggars!" he muttered.

But possibly his benediction would have taken a different form had
he but known that it was through the agency of the _Puffin_ and her
crew of Sea Scouts that the s.s. _Getalong_ was not lying fathoms deep
on the bed of the English Channel.




CHAPTER XI

THE MYSTERIOUS VISITOR


"ONE of you fellows must remain on board as ship-keeper," decided
Scoutmaster Grant. "The unlucky one must be elected amongst
yourselves, so get busy, lads."

The _Puffin_ lay alongside the quay at Sablesham, moored fore and
aft by ropes ashore and with her anchor in the stream to prevent her
chafing against the piles.

The Sea Scouts were about to spend the evening ashore. An invitation
had been received from the Lydiard Scouts to attend a camp-fire
concert at a camp on the side of Blackbird Beacon, a lofty,
grass-covered chalk down about five miles from Sablesham Harbour.

Having told his crew to choose amongst themselves who should be
ship-keeper, Mr. Grant went ashore to visit the harbour master.
Twenty minutes later he returned to find the debatable point still
undecided. Everyone wanted to go, and each Sea Scout had half a
dozen reasons, good, bad, or indifferent, why he should _not_ be
left behind. There was no unseemly wrangle or display of bad temper;
they were simply arguing the matter out.

"What! Not settled yet?" exclaimed Mr. Grant.

"We wish you'd decide, sir," said Carline.

"Unanimous on that?" asked the Scoutmaster.

"Yes, sir," was the reply in chorus.

"Well, I'm not going to," was Mr. Grant's somewhat disconcerting
response, but there was a sly twinkle in his eyes that told the crew
pretty plainly that their Scoutmaster would speedily solve the
perplexing problem.

"You're going to choose Scout fashion. Brandon, bring me a piece of
old rope out of the junk locker, please."

The Patrol-leader brought the required article. Deliberately Mr.
Grant unlaid a portion of the rope and cut off seven pieces each
about three inches in length, and one piece an inch shorter.

"Now," he continued. "Face outward and don't look this way until I
tell you."

Obediently the crew gazed stolidly at a fishing smack moored
alongside the opposite quay, notwithstanding a strong inclination to
know what was going on behind their backs.

"Now, this way!"

The Sea Scouts faced about. On the coaming of the cockpit lay the
signal code-book, while from beneath the latter projected eight
pieces of rope each showing an equal length.

"The fellow who draws the short piece is to be ship-keeper,"
explained Mr. Grant. "Now, Symington, Talbot, Hopcroft, Carline,
Phillips, Wilson."

As each lad's name was called he drew out one of the rope-yarns.
Some chose theirs boldly, others hesitated, making several feints
before taking the plunge, especially as the number of rope-yarns
diminished without the short end coming to light.

"Now, Craddock."

Peter Craddock gave a swift glance at his comrade in the
final--Patrol-leader Brandon.

"Take the one on your left," suggested Brandon.

But Peter chose the other; it was the short end.

"Hard lines, partner!" exclaimed Brandon.

True to his principles Peter Craddock kept smiling, though it was
with envious eyes that he saw his chums "smartening-up" for their
visit to the Lydiard Scouts' camp.

"Cheerio, Peter," was Scoutmaster Grant's parting greeting. "We'll
be back about ten--half-past ten at the latest. Don't forget the
riding-lamp."

The Sea Scouts jumped ashore. Craddock watched them along the quay
and over the swing-bridge until they disappeared round the corner of
the Custom House. Then he settled down to his seven hours' "trick."

There was not much to be done or to be seen. Sablesham Harbour was
almost deserted. The fishing fleet, with a few exceptions, was out.
A couple of grimy colliers were discharging their cargo at the
gasworks. A French smack with her hold full of onions had just
arrived.

All these vessels lay along the east quay. The west quay was
untenanted with the exception of the _Puffin_, which lay about a
hundred yards inside the curved arm of the pier.

After a while Craddock retired to the cabin, and was soon deeply
engrossed in +THE SCOUT+. Tea was rather a sorry meal eaten in
solitude, but Peter, methodical in most matters, washed up and
stowed the things away.

At six o'clock, being half flood, he took in the slack of the ropes
and shifted the dinghy from alongside to under the bowsprit, so as
to be out of the way in case a clumsily-managed boat coming in
should give her a nasty "nip." This done he was free to continue
reading until sunset.

Presently he became aware of the fact that the light was fading. A
heavy patter on the coach-roof of the cabin informed him without any
doubt about the matter that it was raining.

Donning his oilskin Craddock went on deck to make sure that there
was nothing left about that might get spoilt. A glance at the sky
showed that the rain had set in for the night, although there was no
wind at all. So heavy was the downpour that the houses beyond the
opposite quay were almost invisible.

"May as well light the riding lamp while I'm about it," thought the
lad. "It's almost sunset."

The lamp, cleaned and well-trimmed, was quickly lighted and hoisted
on the fore-stay. Then going below and pulling over the
sliding-hatch, Peter prepared to make the best of things till his
comrades returned.

He rather felt like "shaking hands with himself" at the thought that
he hadn't to tramp a good five miles in the pouring rain. After all
there were worse places than a cosy and well-lighted cabin on board
a yacht snugly moored in a sheltered harbour.

"Let me see," he continued, "high water's at 8.15. No need to tend
the warps before midnight. I'll put the kettle on the stove about
nine, so that the other fellows can have something hot when they
return."

Deep in his favourite paper, Peter was unconscious of the flight of
time until the rippling of water against the yacht's bows warned him
that the tide had changed and was beginning to ebb hard. A glance at
the clock showed that it was nine o'clock.

"Below there!"

Craddock sat up with a start. Someone was hailing from the quayside.
Who could be wanting to communicate with the yacht on such a
horribly dirty night?

"Below there!" shouted the voice again.

Pushing back the sliding hatch Peter thrust head and shoulders out
into the rain and darkness. Blinded by the sudden change from the
well-lighted cabin, he could see nothing.

"Hello!" he replied. "What is it?"

"Is this the _Puffin_?" inquired the insistent voice. "Is Mr. Grant
on board?"

"No, sir," replied Craddock.

"When will he return?"

"Very soon," was the non-committal answer.

"In that case I'll come on board and wait," rejoined the stranger.

There was a heavy thud, as a pair of thick-soled boots landed on the
deck, and a burly figure, just visible in the dancing rays of the
swinging riding-light, made straight for the companion hatchway.

Peter went down the steps and stood aside. The uninvited guest's
boots clattered on the brass treads, his body enveloped in a leather
motoring coat, from which the rain water ran in rivulets. He
appeared to take up the whole width of the companion. Then, gaining
the cabin, the stranger turned. "Beastly horrible night, isn't it?"
he remarked.

He was a pleasant-faced man of about thirty. To Craddock he appeared
to resemble very strongly the confiding stranger who had "pumped"
him on Aberstour pier. He might possibly be an elder brother, and if
so was one of the gang of cocaine smugglers, the remainder of which
was doing "time" in prison.

Doubtless he had had the yacht under observation and, finding that
there was only one of the crew on board, was bent upon taking
vengeance upon the Sea Scout who had been instrumental in capturing
the self-styled Scoutmaster Gregory. Those and a score of similar
thoughts flashed across Peter's mind. He decided to act strictly
upon the defensive until Mr. Grant returned.

"Beastly horrible night, isn't it?" said the stranger again, as he
removed his dripping coat. "Do you mind?"

Peter took the proffered garment and hung it in the cupboard on the
starboard side of the companion-ladder. Then he closed the
sliding-hatch, leaving the cabin doors open.

"Now we can have a cosy chat until Mr. Grant returns," continued the
man, in no way offended by the Sea Scout's silence. "I'm anxious to
meet you Sea Scouts, I've heard quite a lot about you. You're a set
of plucky fellows."

"Are we?" said Peter cautiously.

"Aren't you?" rejoined the other, calmly seating himself on the
settee on the starboard side, and thrusting out his legs. By so
doing he had cut off Craddock's only means of getting out of the
cabin, since the fore-hatch was closed and secured on the outside.
"I suppose you had a hand in that little affair with your bogus
Scoutmaster the other day?"

Peter made no reply.

"Modest about your achievement, eh?" laughed the stranger. "Very
well, we'll change the subject. This is a fine little craft of
yours. I'm a sailing man myself, when I can spare the time. As a
matter of fact I was cruising off Aberstour about a week ago. _White
Gull_ is the name of my craft. She's about eighty tons."

"Straight-stemmed cutter, isn't she?" inquired Craddock, feeling
that he must say something.

"No, spoon bow."

"Square stern?"

"No, counter."

"Oh!" exclaimed Peter involuntarily. The particulars as supplied by
the talkative visitor coincided with those of the mysterious craft
from which the _Puffin_ had received the consignment of contraband
drugs.

At that moment a red light gleamed through the port scuttle. The
_Puffin_ lifted to a swell and ground heavily against the piles.

"Steamer coming in," remarked the stranger. "She gave us a bit of a
biff with her wash. I hope your warps are sound."

"I'll go on deck and see," said Peter eagerly.

Without waiting to put on his oilskin, Craddock nipped up the
ladder. His unwanted companion made no effort to stop him. In fact,
he moved his legs aside.

The rain was still descending in sheets. Through the mirk Craddock
could distinguish the stern light of a tramp steamer that had just
entered the harbour and was making for a berth beyond the
swing-bridge.

In vain the Sea Scout looked along the ill-lighted quay in the hope
of seeing either Mr. Grant or a policeman or even a friendly
fisherman. The idea that had flashed across his mind had taken root.
He was firmly convinced that the fellow in the cabin was there for
no good purpose.

"I'll lock him in and go ashore for help," he decided, and measured
the distance between the yacht's rail and the edge of the quay. By
this time the tide had fallen considerably and was ebbing with great
force. The coping of the masonry was a good five feet higher that
the _Puffin's_ deck.

"Don't want to find myself in the ditch," thought Peter.

Through the slightly-opened skylight he peeped cautiously into the
cabin. The stranger was in the act of transferring a revolver from
his hip-pocket to the side-pocket of his jacket.

The light of the cabin lamp glinted upon the dull steel of the
sinister weapon. That was conclusive proof of the intentions of the
fellow.

Very gently Craddock felt for the padlock and key of the companion
hatch, which when not in use hung from a hook just behind one of the
double doors. With a feeling of elation his fingers closed over the
required articles.

The next instant the doors and the sliding-hatch were closed and the
padlock slipped through the hasp that secured all three. So neatly
was the operation completed that the man in the cabin was unaware of
what had taken place. Possibly the thud of the raindrops upon the
cabin-top had deadened the sound.

"Don't stop out in the rain, boy!" he shouted.

Chuckling over the success of his plan Peter went for'ard, intending
to steady himself by the shrouds as he leapt ashore. Before he could
do so there was a loud crack that sounded to him like the report of
a pistol.

Simultaneously the quay appeared to recede from the yacht. Already
the distance between the two was too great for Craddock to leap.
Then it suddenly dawned upon him.

"The yacht's adrift!" gasped Peter.

Absolutely certain that this was part of the stranger's scheme to
smash up the Sea Scouts' yacht, Peter clambered into the bows. The
part of the grass rope secured to the bits hung limply. The _Puffin_
was swinging out with her bows pointing towards the opposite quay
and with the tide boring furiously against her port side.

Kneeling, Peter fumbled for the chain. A distinct rasping sound told
him that the anchor was playing false. Instead of holding, it was
dragging.

Then came another disconcerting sound--the splintering of wood from
right aft. The warp on the port quarter had wrenched the cleat to
which it was secured, from its fastenings.

Back swung the yacht head to tide, but the anchor still refused to
"bite." Having started to drag it continued to do so. Soon the yacht
was abreast of the pier-head and about twenty yards from it. In a
few minutes she would be swept by the surging ebb right out into the
English Channel.




CHAPTER XII

ADRIFT--THEN AGROUND


"I MUST give her more chain," decided Peter, aware of a violent
hammering on the cabin doors, but paying no heed to the clamouring
of the prisoner to be let out.

It was an easy matter to cast off the turns of the chain round the
bitts. With a rush and a rattle the links ran out, until Craddock
decided that he had given enough scope.

But when it came to checking and securing the cable, well, that was
a very different matter. Vainly Peter tried to secure the rapidly
running chain, for the anchor had now obtained a firm hold. Fathom
after fathom rattled through the fairlead.

This state of things did not trouble Peter. He knew that the anchor
was holding this time, and that the inboard end of the chain was
shackled to an eyeplate in the keelson. Sooner or later the yacht
would bring up, and then he could await the return of Mr. Grant and
the rest of the Sea Scouts before attempting to move the _Puffin_
back to her former berth.

But alas for these reassuring thoughts. The yacht--eight tons dead
weight moving at a good three knots--snubbed violently. There was a
disconcerting jerk that almost threw Peter overboard, and the next
instant he caught a glimpse of the tail-end of the cable
disappearing over the bows. The violent jerk had wrenched apart the
shackle that ought to have held the chain to the eyebolt, and the
_Puffin_, unfettered, was utterly at the mercy of the tide.

Craddock kept his head. Although realising his very awkward and
possibly dangerous position he was not one to get into a state of
panic because he found himself drifting out to sea.

It was useless to hail, since there was no one on either quay. Nor
would it be of any use hoisting sails since there was not the
faintest breath of wind. The sweeps were useless against the
three-knot current. There was the motor, but in the present
circumstances it was a "broken reed."

In order to start it up it was necessary to go below to turn on the
petrol and make the usual adjustments, and the cabin through which
Peter would have to pass to gain the motor-room was in the
possession of the armed rascal who was responsible for the present
predicament.

By this time Peter was unpleasantly aware that it was still raining
in torrents and that he was without an oilskin. During the
excitement occasioned by the yacht breaking adrift he had hardly
noticed the downpour. Now that the strenuous period of activity was
over, the rain felt horribly cold as it beat down upon his
unprotected head.

"She won't drift very far," thought Craddock. "The tide doesn't run
so hard outside, and Mr. Grant ought to be back by now. He'll be
bound to see the riding-light."

"Open that door, you silly young ass!" exclaimed the imprisoned man
angrily. "A joke's a joke in a way, but this is a bit too thick."

Peter ignored the request. It recalled a very similar speech by the
bogus Scoutmaster. Apparently the man had opened the cabin scuttle
and had seen that the yacht was drifting out of the harbour.

The teak panels creaked under the pressure of his shoulders.

"Stop that!" said Peter sternly. "If you burst open those doors I'll
hit you over the head with the winch-lever."

"What for, you silly owl?" expostulated the captive. "Don't play the
fool any longer. You've lost your anchor and cable--I know that--but
the pair of us ought to be able to get the yacht back. Come on, now,
open that door."

"I will when Mr. Grant comes on board--not before," replied Craddock
resolutely. "You wait. He won't be very long."

The prisoner made no audible reply.

Peter then prepared to keep his vigil as best he could in the
uncomfortable circumstances. From the sail-locker in the cockpit he
pulled out the spitfire jib, the thick canvas of which afforded
tolerable protection from the rain. Then, gazing shorewards, he
watched the slowly receding lights of Sablesham until they were
blotted out in the watery atmosphere.

"Looks like making a night of it," he thought. "The _Puffin_ is like
a needle in a haystack in this downpour. By jove! I'd forgotten the
dinghy," he added, as the slight dipping of the yacht caused the
bowsprit-end to hit the gunwhale of her little tender.

Throwing aside the protecting sail Peter went for'ard, clambered
along the bowsprit and dropped into the dinghy. Unbending the
painter and sternfast, he brought the boat alongside and made her
fast to the yacht's shrouds. This done, he returned to the cockpit.

The cabin clock struck eight bells.

"Midnight already," thought Peter. "Wonder what Mr. Grant and the
other fellows are doing?"

He drew a mental picture of the Scoutmaster and seven drenched Sea
Scouts standing disconsolately upon the deserted quay, and
wondering where their floating home with its comfortable bunks had
gone.

A few minutes later the yacht's keel grated gently upon a gravelly
bottom. The dinghy, hitherto drifting alongside, swung round until
brought up by the full scope of the painter.

"We're aground!" exclaimed Peter, stating what was an obvious and
accomplished fact.




CHAPTER XIII

A SUCCESSFUL RUSE


"HALF-EBB," he continued, musingly to himself. "She won't float
much before six or seven. It'll be broad daylight by then. I wonder
where we are? Can't see any sign of land. It's lucky there's no sea
on. She won't hurt; that's one blessing. Wonder what that fellow's
doing in the cabin? I'll see."

Carefully Craddock approached the still open skylight. Looking down
through the smoke-laden atmosphere of the cabin he saw that the
captive was calmly lying at full length on the starboard settee and
was seemingly deep in the pages of Peter's favourite paper.

On the swing table was a cigarette case and a spirit flask. The
occupant of the cabin appeared to be very happy! Rather ruefully the
Sea Scout compared his own position with the comfortable
surroundings in which his prisoner was taking things so easily.

"He won't enjoy himself when the yacht begins to heel," thought
Peter. "She's bound to lie right over when the tide leaves her."

Even as he watched, Craddock saw the man bring his hand up to his
forehead and slide helplessly upon the cabin floor, groaning
dismally as he did so.

In an instant Peter's feelings towards the fellow changed. Up to the
present he had treated him as a dangerous character, now he regarded
him only as a human being in distress.

"He's ill--very ill," thought the Sea Scout. "I'll do what I can to
render First-Aid, and while I'm about it I may as well relieve him
of that revolver."

Without hesitation Craddock unlocked the padlock and flung open the
doors. Nimbly descending the companion ladder he gained the cabin.

As he did so a hand shot out and grasped him firmly by the shoulder.

"Now, young man!" exclaimed the stranger briskly. "I've done you
this time. What's your explanation?"

Peter gaped at his captor. The man had scored by a ruse. He was
smiling grimly as he gripped the lad's shoulder.

"Like firing on the white flag, eh?" continued the man. "Couldn't be
helped. You wouldn't listen to reason. You thought I was reading. I
wasn't. Your Scoutmaster's shaving-mirror came in very handy. But
isn't it time to knock off fooling? The yacht's aground. If we don't
get her off she'll be matchwood before morning."

This solicitude for the _Puffin_ took Craddock completely by
surprise.

"She's all right," he protested. "There's no wind and the sea's
calm."

"All right so far," corrected the other. "You jolly well ought to
know better than that. A windless rain is invariably followed by a
very hard blow. Look at the glass--fallen three-tenths since it was
last set. That's enough warning. What possessed you to cast off the
warps?"

"Cast off the warps?" repeated Craddock. "I didn't. That was your
work."

"Rot!" commented the stranger. "But explanations can come later.
Time's precious. Get that engine running as sharp as you can. We may
be too late as it is."

Meekly Peter dived into the motor-room. Since the other fellow was
top-dog at present, it would be wise to humour him. In any case it
was worth trying to get the yacht afloat, especially as there was a
strong possibility of a gale springing up.

"She's ready," announced Craddock, emerging from the engine-room.
"I'll have to start her up from the cockpit."

"Good!" ejaculated the stranger. "There's a reversing propeller, I
hope?"

"Reverse gear," corrected Peter.

The pair went on deck. It had ceased to rain. Overhead the stars
were shining brightly, but away to the south'ard a bank of dark
clouds with jagged edges betokened the approach of the predicted
storm.

Two miles to the nor'east glimmered the harbour lights of
Sablesham--a sight that surprised Peter considerably. He had been
under the impression that the _Puffin_ had drifted to the east'ard.
Instead she had drifted to the sou'west, and was now aground on the
Tinker Shoal.

But there was no time to be lost. The motor fired at the first
swing. Craddock put the reverse lever hard back. Frothy water
swirled past the yacht's sides from stern to stem, but although the
_Puffin_ trembled under the pulsations of the motor she showed no
sign of slipping off into deeper water.

"She's on," declared the stranger. "Mind your head."

He sprang aft, uncleated the main-sheet and removed the boom-crutch.
The boom, together with the gaff and snowed mainsail, was now held
only by the topping-lift. With a heave the boom was swung out until
it was nearly at right angles to the side.

"Get outside the shrouds and shake her," commanded the stranger
briskly. "I'll bear a hand with the sweep."

Listing under the uneven balance of the heavy boom, and with Peter's
weight hanging over the side, the _Puffin_ lay well down until her
rail was within a foot of the water. At the same time the stranger,
standing in the bows, thrust with all his might at the end of a
fifteen-feet oar, while the motor was racing at full speed astern.

"She's moving," panted the stranger.

Peter could hear the metal keel grating over the gravel--slowly but
surely.

Once or twice the yacht held up, but the detention was only
temporary.

"She's off!" shouted the stranger, putting down the sweep and coming
aft. "I'll take the helm. Keep her going astern for a bit."

Not until the _Puffin_ was well clear of the dangerous shoal did
Peter receive the order, "Full ahead."

Round swung the yacht. Craddock watched with eager eyes to see what
course the helmsman would take, until to his unspoken relief Peter
saw that the _Puffin_ was heading straight for Sablesham Harbour,




CHAPTER XIV

ON THE TRACK OF THE "PUFFIN"


AT 10 p.m. Scoutmaster Grant and his seven Sea Scouts began their
five-mile tramp to Sablesham. The rain was descending in torrents.
Behind them were the sizzling embers of the Lydiard Scouts'
camp-fire. The sing-song had been a tremendous success, and it was
not until the guests had partaken of refreshment that the rain came
on in earnest.

It took more than a torrential downpour to damp the spirits of the
Sea Scouts. Their clothing was saturated. They had no oilskins with
them. Water squelched in their shoes at every step. It was
pitch-dark, and the road was almost ankle-deep in chalky mud. Yet
they whistled blithely.

An hour and ten minutes later they were crossing the swing-bridge.
From there it was impossible to see more than a couple of hundred
yards. The furthermost of the gas lamps were blotted out in the
watery atmosphere. "Nearly there!" exclaimed Mr. Grant. "Thank
goodness we'll have a dry roof over our heads. Craddock will be
wondering why we are late. I wonder if----"

He broke off abruptly.

The mast and riding-light of the _Puffin_ ought by this time to be
visible. They were not.

Mr. Grant said nothing. He hoped that his eyesight was playing him
false, but he doubted it.

"She's gone, sir!" corroborated Brandon.

"Harbour master's shifted her, perhaps," suggested the Scoutmaster,
quickening his pace.

The _Puffin's_ berth was empty. There was her bow warp still made
fast to a bollard. Hauling in the rope the Sea-Scouts made the
discovery that it had parted--the frayed ends showing no sign of
having been cut by a knife.

A further search revealed the sternfast. In this case the rope was
intact, but at one end was a wooden cleat with screws attached.

"She's broken adrift," exclaimed the Patrol-leader. "What's the
anchor doing?"

"We'll go to the pier-head and see if we can spot the yacht," said
Mr. Grant. "Craddock must have heard the yacht parting her warps,
even if he were asleep in the cabin. Perhaps he brought up round the
corner."

But no. Seaward there was nothing but an ill-defined expanse of dark
water and hissing rain.

"Back to the swing-bridge, lads!" exclaimed the Scoutmaster. "Keep a
look-out in case the _Puffin's_ alongside the opposite quay."

The bridge-keeper on being questioned was emphatic that no yacht had
passed through, and that he had only once opened the bridge that
night, to admit a Norwegian timber ship.

"Then there's only one thing to be done," declared Mr. Grant. "We'll
have to find a boat and look for Craddock outside."

It was no easy matter to find a boat with oars in her. There were
several small craft lying above the bridge, but in each case they
were without gear--a fact that pointed silently to the weaknesses of
a certain class of Sablesham longshoremen.

"We'll have to knock up one of the boatmen," decided Mr. Grant.
"Come on, this way."

It was a long, tedious business. The bridge-keeper furnished the
addresses of two or three men who let out boats. Finding them was no
easy matter in the ill-lighted streets.

The first house they called at proved a blank. Either the occupier
didn't or wouldn't hear the Scoutmaster's knock. At the second the
owner opened an upper window and in husky accents bade his visitors,
"Clear out, or I'll loose my dawg on yer!"

The third attempt proved successful, although it was quite twenty
minutes before the boatman could be prevailed upon to dress and lead
the way to the store where he kept his gear. Then the boat had to be
baled out, for the heavy rain had filled it almost level with the
thwarts, and a second visit had to be made to the store, since the
rowlocks provided were too big for that particular craft.

The hour of midnight was striking as the Sea Scouts pushed off in
their borrowed boat.

"Give way, lads," ordered Mr. Grant. "Nothing like a little exertion
on a wet night."

Knowing the set of the tides, the Scoutmaster felt pretty hopeful
that he could pick up the drifting yacht. He was still hoping that
Craddock had paid out more chain and that the _Puffin_ would be
found brought up within a mile of the entrance to the harbour.

But when the boat gained the open sea Mr. Grant did not feel quite
so optimistic. Even at a short distance the harbour lights looked
dim. Seaward not a glimmer of any description was visible.

For the best part of forty minutes the Sea Scouts pulled steadily.
The boat was heavy and beamy, but the lads by double banking three
of the four oars, kept her going at a steady pace.

"We'll go back," decided Mr. Grant. "She doesn't appear to be
anywhere this way. The rain's easing a bit. We may be able to see
better presently."

"Light right astern, sir!" reported Brandon, almost as soon as the
boat's head was turned in the direction of Sablesham.

Mr. Grant looked over his shoulder.

"Your eyesight's better than mine, Brandon," he remarked. "What sort
of light?"

"White, sir."

Ten minutes later Brandon gave a whoop of joy.

"It's the _Puffin_, sir," he announced. "I know the bark of the
motor."

No explanations were asked or given until the _Puffin_, with two
boats towing astern, brought up in a secure berth in Sablesham
Harbour.

There, in the cosy cabin, Scoutmaster and Sea Scouts crowded to hear
the story of the _Puffin's_ adventures.

"Here's my card, Mr. Grant," said the stranger. "Mr. Ulysses
Paynton, of the firm of Paynton and Small, the underwriters of the
s.s. _Getalong_. Apparently the bright youth took me for an
undesirable acquaintance; but we've squared that up, haven't we,
Craddock?"

"It was your revolver, sir, that confirmed my suspicions."

"Revolver?" inquired Mr. Paynton. "I haven't one."

Then he laughed whole-heartedly, and drew from his pocket a steel
spanner.

"Had to make an adjustment to my car," he explained, "and
absent-mindedly I put the spanner into my hip pocket. So that's
that. But you'll be wondering why I called to see you, Mr. Grant. I
motored down to Aberstour, and finding you were at Sablesham I came
on here. That made me late. My firm wished to pay a slight
acknowledgment to your Sea Scouts for the work in salving the s.s.
_Getalong_, which, you will remember, was scuttled by her captain
some time ago. Will you please accept this?"

"This" was a packet of Bank of England notes to the value of fifty
pounds.




CHAPTER XV

THE FISHING EXPEDITION


"WHERE are we making for, Negus?" inquired Patrol-leader Frank
Brandon, as the fishing smack _Frolic_ with triced-up tack, reefed
foresail and small jib, threshed her way out of Aberstour Harbour.

The old fisherman, usually a man of few words, gave a glance to
wind'ard before replying.

"Silverknoll Bank," he answered. "We might find a few sole up-along.
Fish be tur'ble scarce--none of us fisherfolk can quite make out why
'tes. Last week--when my boy Jim broke 'is arm, the old _Frolic_
gybing accidental-like--we was down along the Five Fathom Bank, and
we ne'er got so much as a bucket o' fish. So I thought I'd just try
the Silverknoll. Bowse down that there tack, you might."

Brandon quickly carried out the order of his temporary skipper, then
sitting on the weather waterways, he took stock of his surroundings.

The _Frolic_ was an old boat, probably almost as ancient as her
grey-haired owner, but she had a reputation for weatherliness that
had been gained in many a hard fight against winter gales. She was
roughly thirty feet in length, and with a beam of ten feet, her
draught being four feet six inches.

She was decked in as far as the mast, a small fo'c'sle providing
sleeping accommodation, if necessary, for a couple of hands. An open
well extended from the mast to within five feet of the transom, the
latter space being occupied by a self-draining tray.

Outside ballast she had none, her stability being assured by the
weight of nearly five tons of stones packed under the floorboards.
She was cutter-rigged, with a loose-footed mainsail, and in spite of
her "dead" ballast she rode the waves like a duck.

It was Brandon's first experience of a trip on a fishing smack. The
novelty of it appealed to him, coupled with the knowledge that he
was doing a Good Turn to old Negus by bearing a hand with the heavy
gear.

For the present there was nothing much to be done. Brandon was at
liberty to sit and watch the coast as the harbour piers of Aberstour
faded away on the port quarter. He revelled in the salt-laden
breeze, but one sniff warned him of the risk he ran of sheltering
under the weather coaming.

The _Frolic_ reeked abominably. There was no denying the fact. Her
open well emanated odours of bait that was long past the "high"
stage, mingled with the reek of fish, decaying seaweed and
mussel-shells, the whole variety of perfumes being toned down by the
pungent smell of tar.

"Suppose I'll get used to it," thought Brandon dubiously. "Negus
seems to have thrived on it."

There was secret admiration in Brandon's mind as he glanced at the
stolid face of the hale and hearty fisherman, who, notwithstanding
his three score and ten years, was as active as many a man half his
age, and looked strong in muscles and sinews.

The Silverknoll Bank lay about fifteen miles east of Aberstour and
about two and a half miles from Broken Point, the nearest land.

It was what was known as uncertain ground--the fishermen could
never rely upon a steady catch. Sometimes the trawl would be full of
fine soles; at others the result of a hard night's work would be so
small as to render the trip unprofitable, and sometimes not
sufficient to pay for the wear and tear of the gear.

But the perplexing part of the business was this: where did the fish
go? There was no other sandy patch for miles, and since flat fish
rarely desert their favourite ground and almost invariably give
rocky bottoms a wide berth, the unaccountable coming and going of
the soles was a mystery.

Close hauled on the starboard it took the _Frolic_ a good three
hours to arrive at the spot Negus had chosen for the casting of the
net. By this time the sun had set and a slight mist was stealing
seawards from the low-lying land.

"Mun' wait a-while," remarked the old fisherman. "Tide don't carve
yet. We'll overrun yon trawl. Mind you be careful as we're shootin'
it an' don't go overboard with it."

"I'll try not to," replied Brandon. "A fellow wouldn't stand much
chance mixed up with that lot."

"He might," continued the _Frolic's_ owner. "I call to mind when I
wur a young man--twixt fifty an' sixty year agone--I knowed a boy
what was carried overboard in the pocket of the trawl. Twenty
minutes 'e wur under water--p'raps more, sartainly no less."

"He was drowned, of course," said Brandon.

Old Negus chortled.

"Drownded--not much," he declared. "They got 'im out an' scrubbed
him wi' salt till 'e wur as red as a oiled lobster. Same arternoon
'e wur a-playin' about right as ninepence. That's a solemn fact.
Howsomever, tide's about right now. Over with 'em."

Brandon now took the tiller, while his elder companion dived into
the fo'c'sle to tend the coke stove and also to fill and light his
blackened clay pipe.

It was an ideal night, warm and with just sufficient wind to take
the fishing boat over the ground in spite of the drag of the net.

The _Frolic_ apparently had the Silverknoll to herself, although at
some miles distant could be discerned the port and masthead lights
of a vessel proceeding up-channel.

A little later the lights vanished, owing to a bank of mist drifting
towards the solitary fishing boat.

Presently Old Negus emerged from his retreat and peered landwards.
There were no marks so far as Brandon could make out; but evidently
the old fisherman knew exactly where he was.

"End o' bank," he announced. "Up with yon trawl."

It was tedious work. By dint of their united efforts, the net came
home foot by foot, copiously shedding moisture and seaweed, until
the "bag," heavy and bulky, showed just below the surface.

"We've got a good haul this time, Negus," declared Brandon.

The old fisherman shook his head.

"Weed, mos' like," he rejoined. "Mind yon otter-board. It be fairish
heavy."

When the catch was examined it was found to consist mainly of sand
and seaweed. But half a dozen medium-sized soles and a couple of
dabs rewarded their efforts.

"There's summat about to-night," decided Old Negus, as he set up the
peak of the mainsail. "We'm still main early."

With flattened sheets the _Frolic_ beat to wind'ard until she gained
a position favourable to shooting the trawl again. It was now close
on midnight. The mist was thickening, although it was possible to
discern objects a quarter of a mile away.

"Take her, lad," said Old Negus, when the trawl was trailing astern.
"I'll make a drop o' cocoa. 'Twill be main acceptable, I'll allow."

Once more the old fisherman disappeared under the foredeck, leaving
Brandon at the helm.

The Patrol-leader's back and arms were aching, his wet fingers were
almost raw with the chafe of the sandy ropes, notwithstanding the
fact that he rather prided himself upon the horny state of his
hands.

He was beginning to realise that a fisherman's life, even on a calm
night, was not "all honey." He tried to imagine what it would be
like on a boisterous night, with the canvas board hard with frozen
spray.

Presently Brandon's ears caught the faint sounds of an engine
throbbing. He peered in the direction from which the steady
pulsations came, fully expecting to see the navigation lights of a
vessel.

He saw none. The noise of the approaching craft became steadily
louder and louder.

"Negus!" he shouted. "There's a steamer coming towards us."

The old man emerged from the fo'c'sle and peered into the darkness.

"Oh--ay!" he exclaimed. "Sure she be. There she be, broad on our
starboard beam. No lights nor nothin'."

Brandon looked but could see nothing. Usually quick at seeing things
he was now hopelessly beaten by the eyes of the ancient fisherman.

Snatching up a lantern from the fo'c'sle, Negus waved it above his
head. It was just possible that the _Frolic's_ green light might not
be visible to the look-out on board the approaching steamer. Unless
the watch on board were asleep they could hardly fail to notice the
waving white light.

"What be them up to?" exclaimed Old Negus querulously. "They'll be
atop o' we in a brace o' shakes."

Brandon could now discern the misty outlines of the vessel. She was
very nearly bows-on, a ghostly mass gliding slowly through the water
without showing the faintest glimmer.

"Ahoy!" bawled Negus, waving the lantern with increased vigour.

"She's altering helm," announced Brandon, who in his anxiety had
allowed the _Frolic_ to come up a good four points.

"But our nets!" ejaculated Old Negus. "Up helm."

Thirty seconds later the vessel--a large steam drifter cut the wake
of the _Frolic_ at less than twenty feet from the latter's transom.
There was a sudden jerk. The rope of the otter trawl parted as the
vessel's stern fouled the nets. A chorus of mocking laughter came
from the drifter's decks.




CHAPTER XVI

CATCHING A TARTAR!


"THE hound!" ejaculated Old Negus angrily, as he made a jump for the
_Frolic's_ tiller. "Furriners they be poachers. Up for'ard, lad, and
when I gives the word, let go the anchor."

Unable to realise the meaning of the skipper's order Brandon
clambered on to the foredeck. Steadying himself by the forestay with
one hand he lifted the anchor, already stocked, with the other.

Then he waited, hanging on like grim death as the _Frolic_ pitched
and plunged in the bow-wave of the steamer.

Putting the helm hard down Old Negus threw the _Frolic_ into the
wind. Relieved of the drag of the trawl she answered her helm so
readily that she cut the drifter's track close under the latter's
counter.

"Let go!" yelled Old Negus.

Splash went the anchor. Fathom after fathom of chain ran out until
Brandon got the word to belay.

A succession of jerks announced that the anchor was obtaining a
series of temporary and insecure holds. Then Brandon grasped the
situation.

_The anchor was ripping the drifter's nets._

"Come aft!" shouted Old Negus. "There'll be a tur'ble jerk when the
hook brings up agen her trawl-beam."

"The fat's in the fire with a vengeance this time," thought Frank,
as he leapt into the well. "I wonder what will happen now?"

He was not left long in doubt. Although the drifter was making a
bare three knots owing to the drag of a fifty feet beam and a ton or
more of nets, the sudden strain as the _Frolic's_ anchor jammed
against the trawl-beam well-nigh capsized Brandon.

Round swung the _Frolic_, towed by the craft that had so
deliberately cut away Old Negus's gear.

"Belgian or Frenchie, that's what she be," declared the old
fisherman. "Poachin' inside the three-mile limit. Now us knows why
there bain't much fish on the Silverknoll Bank."

"What are we going to do now?" asked Brandon rather anxiously.

"Do?" repeated Old Negus. "Jus' hang on till daylight, if needs
must. If they cut their trawl adrift then we'll collar it. Fair
exchange it'll be. If not, they can tow us till they're fair fed up.
Wish I could see 'er name."

"I've a torch in my haversack," announced Brandon. "Thought it might
come in handy."

By this time the crew of the drifter had made the disconcerting
discovery that the insignificant English fishing boat whose nets
they had wantonly cut was now playing havoc with their gear.

A volley of abuse was directed upon the _Frolic_, together with a
command to "Cut ze hawsair or ve sink you."

The beam of Brandon's torch played upon the drifter. On her counter,
showing up distinctly in the bright light, were the words,
"_Marie-Celeste_, Ostende." Over the taffrail were half a dozen men
gesticulating and shouting.

"Signal ashore," said Old Negus. "P'raps coastguards over agin
Broken Point'll spot it."

Brandon needed no second bidding. Rapidly he Morsed a message
stating the plight of the _Frolic_, and requesting assistance.

The Belgians broke into another and more vigorous howl of anger at
seeing the dots and dashes. Old Negus laughed as light-heartedly as
a boy.

"They dursn't go astern," he observed. "'Fraid of fouling their
propeller, they be. An' they don't want to cut adrift their gear.
We've got 'em fixed, boy."

"I hope so," agreed Brandon, fired by the enthusiasm and doggedness
of his companion.

The drifter's next manoeuvre was to put her helm hard a-port.
Hitherto she had been standing in towards the land and was already
within a mile and a half of Broken Point. Unless she swung round
through at least eight or ten points she would soon be aground in
shoal water.

But Old Negus had anticipated this change. Directly the Belgian
ported helm he ported, with the result that the _Frolic_ took a wide
sheer to starboard.

Impeded by the drag of her gear and the additional resistance
offered by the fishing smack, the _Marie-Celeste_ simply would not
answer to her helm.

The crew, beginning to realise that they had caught a Tartar, were
frantic with rage.

"Keep on a-signalling," ordered Old Negus. "Happen you can't see no
light ashore?"

Brandon had to confess that up to the present his signals were
unanswered.

Just then the _Marie-Celeste's_ engine-room telegraph bell clanged.
After a brief interval her propeller ceased to revolve. Quickly she
lost way.


The _Frolic_, still holding on, decreased her distance to about
fifty yards.

"What----?" began the Patrol-leader, but Old Negus held up his hand.

"Listen!" he exclaimed.

They could hear unmistakable sounds of a boat being swung out from
the Belgian drifter. The squeaking of the davits as they were turned
outboard, the rattle of the fall-blocks and the clatter of oars
being shifted as one of the men fumbled for the plug, told their own
tale.

"Boy!" exclaimed Old Negus. "Me an' you's going to make a fight for
it."

"Righto!" agreed Brandon.




CHAPTER XVII

THE ATTACK ON THE "FROLIC"


FRANK BRANDON was surprised at his own coolness. Beyond a peculiar
sensation somewhere in the region of his belt he felt calm and
collected. Essentially of a peaceable nature, it was the dastardly
action of the Belgian fishermen that had roused his ire.

He realised that if it came to blows it would be an unequal contest
in point of numbers. As far as the _Frolic's_ crew were concerned
there could be no retreat should things go badly with them.

Quickly Old Negus laid out the weapons for defence--a boathook, a
small axe, a hammer and a few stones hurriedly removed from the
ballast. Then he dived into the fo'c'sle.

"Cocoa's hot," he announced. "We'll see 'ow them Belgians like it.
An' I've just a-put the poker in the fire."

Then they waited in silence for the approach of the foe.

The drifter's boat was lowered. The crew of the _Frolic_ heard the
thud of the disengaged lower blocks against the vessel's iron sides.
A gutteral order and the oars dropped.

Brandon grasped the boathook.

"Anglais!" shouted a voice from the _Marie-Celeste's_ boat. "Take in
ze anchor an' go' vay, den ve gif you five poun'."

No answer.

"Ve gif seven poun'," persisted the man in a wheedling voice. "An' a
leetle cask of ze rum."

Still no answer.

"A ver' big, goot cask of ze rum, zen," continued the Belgian. "Ve
hafe eet in ze boat, see. Ver' goot rum an' seven poun'."

The dogged silence on the part of the _Frolic's_ crew rather puzzled
the Belgians. They took advantage of the delay to paddle a few
strokes until their boat was within ten yards of the fishing smack's
quarter.

Then Old Negus broke the silence.

"Sheer off!" he shouted. "Or we'll stave in your boat."

"Vat you mean--stave in, eh?" demanded the spokesman.

"You three chaps keep below till I give the word," said Old Negus,
addressing a purely imaginary crew.

"Ve is nine," announced the spokesman of the boat's crew with the
air of one holding the winning ace.

"Keep off!" was Old Negus's only rejoinder. "Drat they coastguard
chaps," he added in a lower tone. "Them's all asleep. Keep on
signallin', boy."

"Can't much longer," replied Brandon, "The battery of my torch is
running down. Look out!"

The warning was just in time, for the boat of the _Marie-Celeste_
had edged nearer, sufficiently to enable the bowman to deliver a
blow with a fifteen feet ash oar.

It missed the old fisherman by a few inches. Negus's reply was to
hurl a stone, that landed with a dull thud. A yell of pain was ample
evidence that the missile had struck one of the boat's crew.

The next instant the boat was alongside. Four or five men, some
armed with knives, others with cudgels, leapt upon the foredeck of
the _Frolic_.

A well-directed thrust with the boathook enabled Brandon to reduce
the number by one. The fellow, wildly pawing the air, tumbled
backwards, falling between the fishing smack and the boat.

Before Brandon could make another lunge a powerful hand grasped the
boathook. Instantly the Patrol-leader dropped the stave, seized a
hatchet, and with the back of the steel head dealt a sweeping blow
at the legs of the fellow who had gained possession of the boathook.


{Illustration: "A WELL-DIRECTED THRUST ENABLED BRANDON TO REDUCE THE
NUMBER BY ONE."
                                                       [_P_. 108}



Down went the Belgian, dragging another with him, the two falling
upon the man who had previously been "ditched." Their combined
weight and bulk sent the boat a good five yards from the smack;
while the two men left on the _Frolic's_ fore-deck, finding their
retreat cut off, promptly leapt overboard.

"That's settled 'em!" exclaimed Old Negus triumphantly. "Eh? What be
the matter wi' your head, boy?"

"Only a scratch," replied Brandon, hardly aware of the fact that
blood was trickling from a cut in the centre of his forehead.

But the old fisherman was wrong in his surmise. The assailants,
having pulled the swimmers into their boat, were returning to the
attack.

Undeterred by half a dozen stones hurled by the crew of the
_Frolic_, the poachers again rowed towards the smack, the bowman
protecting himself by holding up a large triangular grating. By this
time it was evident that they were aware of the actual number of the
_Frolic's_ crew, and confident in a four-to-one superiority they
sought to end the encounter by a determined rush.

In a trice Old Negus dashed into the fo'c'sle, emerging with a huge
iron saucepan filled with boiling water.

"Stand clear, boy!" he exclaimed warningly; then with a sweep of his
sinewy arm he hurled the saucepan and its scalding contents into the
midst of the attackers in the bow of the boat.

Yells and screams of agony burst from the tortured men. Oars trailed
aimlessly alongside, as they relinquished them to hold their hands
to their blistering faces.

The boat, still carrying way, glided under the _Frolic's_ stern, a
thrust with one of the smack's sweeps sending her clear.

This time the would-be boarders had had more than enough. Groaning
and yelling, they managed to row back to the _Marie-Celeste_.

Ten minutes passed without any further communication between the
_Frolic_ and the _Marie-Celeste_. Then a voice, plaintively
apologetic, came from the poop of the Belgian drifter:--

"Anglais! Ve gif twenty-five pours' if you pull in ze anchor."

"Make it fifty while you'm about it," replied Old Negus. "'Twon't
make no difference. Here we bide."

Nevertheless, the skipper of the _Frolic_ began to feel a bit
anxious, for during the encounter the _Marie-Celeste's_ head had
fallen off and now lay with the land broad on her port beam. It was
quite possible that if she went ahead again she might be able to
steam beyond the all-important "three-mile limit."

"Ver' well," continued the Belgian, who had now observed the altered
state of affairs. "Ve back to Ostende go. On ze voyage we cut an'
buoy ze trawl; zen we sink you."

Which was exactly what Old Negus feared. In the darkness the
helpless _Frolic_ could be sunk without a trace, since even if she
slipped her cable, she would be at the mercy of the powerful steam
drifter.

"It's no use your tryin' that," he shouted brazenly. "We've telled
the coastguards, an' there's a gunboat on her way already. Wish she
wur," he added under his breath.

The next instant the drifter and the _Frolic_ were bathed in a
dazzling white light.

Brandon gave a cheer. At the opportune moment, help was at hand.




CHAPTER XVIII

CLEARING UP THE MYSTERY


THE Patrol-leader could only surmise that the searchlight came from
a British warship. It was impossible to discern the source of that
blinding beam or to form any idea of the distance from which it
came.

Then through the night came a crisp order:

"Away sea-boat's crew!"

The steady plash of oars and the creaking of crutches announced the
approach of the warship's boat. Presently she swung athwart the
dazzling beam, the crew outlined in silver as they bent to the
pliant oars.

"Way 'nough--in bow."

Right alongside the _Marie-Celeste_ swung the boat. Lithe, active
bluejackets swarmed up the drifter's rusty sides. Loud, excited
protests on the part of the foreigners were checked by a stern order
that they were under arrest.

"Smack ahoy!" hailed an unmistakable English voice.

"Ay, ay, sir!" shouted Old Negus in reply

"Are you foul of this fellow's trawl?"

"Ay," replied the old fisherman grimly. "'Twas what I meant to do."

"Righto! Clear your gear and carry on. When do you think you'll make
Aberstour?"

"Soon as we can," declared Old Negus.

"Shout when you're clear, then," continued the boarding officer. "We
want to haul in this fellow's trawl and be taken in tow."

It was a tricky job disentangling the _Frolic's_ anchor from the
beam of the trawl, but, aided by the smack's winch, the task was
accomplished.

With a fair tide and steady head wind the _Frolic_ beat homeward.
Before long the destroyer overtook her with the _Marie-Celeste_ in
tow.

"I'll be gettin' a new otter trawl out o' she," remarked Old Negus,
jerking his thumb in the direction of the captured drifter. "T'old
'un was a bit shaky," he added with a grin. "But it fair beats me to
know 'ow that there destroyer came up just when she were wanted."

  * * * * * *

It was not until the following day that the question was answered.

Brandon and Old Negus had to attend court as witnesses against the
crew of the _Marie-Celeste_. Then it came out that the coastguards
had picked up Brandon's signals, but very wisely they refrained from
answering them lest the poachers should take alarm.

The coastguards immediately telephoned to the Divisional
Headquarters at Aberstour. The fishery protection gunboat was away,
her position by wireless being given as eighty miles sou'-sou'-west
of her port.

Clearly she was too far away, even at her speed of twenty-two knots,
to be on the scene in time; so Aberstour sent out a general wireless
call, which was picked up by the destroyer _Seagull_, which was on
her way from Portsmouth to Sheerness, and at the time was only
eleven miles from the Silverknoll Bank. Thirty-five minutes after
receiving the message the _Seagull_ had captured the
_Marie-Celeste_.

Caught red-handed the Belgians were fined £200 and their gear
confiscated. Old Negus received £50 compensation for the deliberate
destruction of his trawl, and Patrol-leader Brandon was highly
complimented for his part in the capture of the poachers:

More than that, the mystery of the scarcity of fish on the
Silverknoll Bank was satisfactorily cleared up, since foreign
drifters no longer run the risk of trawling within the three-mile
limit off that part of the coast.




CHAPTER XIX

THE SHIP-KEEPERS


"WOULD you like a roving commission Peter?" asked Scoutmaster Grant.

"Yes, rather, sir," replied Peter Craddock. "What is it?"

The Otters were off duty. That is to say they had to "remain on the
beach" while the Aberstour Sea Scouts yacht went away on a cruise
with the Seals. The _Puffin_ was ready to get under way and was only
awaiting Mr. Grant's arrival before slipping her moorings.

"A week afloat," replied the Scoutmaster. "I've seen your people and
explained matters. You noticed that ketch yacht that came in last
evening?"

"The _Thetis_, sir?"

"Yes, her owner is an old friend of mine, although I didn't
recognise him until he made himself known this morning. He is in a
bit of a hole and he came to me to know if the Aberstour Sea Scouts
could help him out. I said I thought they could."

"We'll have a jolly good shot at it, anyway, sir," exclaimed Peter.

"The difficulty is this," resumed Mr. Grant. "My friend, Mr.
Clifton, is cruising. He left Burnham-on-Crouch last Monday with a
paid hand as crew. Unfortunately, or perhaps it may turn out
fortunately, the crew proved unsatisfactory, so much so that Mr.
Clifton discharged him at Otherport and came on to Aberstour
single-handed. He tried at both places to obtain another paid hand,
but as you know the fishing season is on. When he heard that we ran
a fairly smart Troop of Sea Scouts here and that I happened to be
Scoutmaster he suggested that I might find a reliable lad to go with
him. I hinted that perhaps he might take all the Otter Patrol, but
when I told him that there were eight of them he drew the line at
that."

"'Then he missed something, sir," declared Craddock.

"But he was quite willing to have two Sea Scouts," continued Mr.
Grant. "I thought of Brandon and you, but Frank had promised to help
Old Negus on the fishing-smack _Frolic_, because Jim Negus has
broken his arm. So I fixed on Carline and you. Carline's on his way
down. Report on board the _Thetis_ before twelve o'clock. Well, I
must not keep the Seals waiting. Cheerio, Peter, and good luck."

Punctually at the appointed time, Peter Craddock and George Carline
went on board the _Thetis_, where they introduced themselves to the
owner.

Mr. Clifton was a thin, wiry man of about thirty. He was not
tall--Peter could give him a couple of inches--but he was full of
energy and as active as a kitten. He was deeply sunburnt, while his
bony hands were as hard as iron--characteristics of a yachtsman who
gets the very best out of the pastime by taking an active part in
the management of his own craft.

"I'll like that chap," thought Peter as the owner and skipper of the
_Thetis_ shook hands.

"These are the fellows I want," decided Mr. Clifton, as he gave a
swift, comprehensive glance at the two alert, well-set up Sea
Scouts. "If appearances go for anything they know their job. Thank
goodness they're wearing rubber shoes and not hob-nailed boots."

Viewed from the quayside the _Thetis_ looked very little larger than
the _Puffin_. She was ketch-rigged, with roller headsails. All her
canvas was tanned, thus doing away with the necessity of
sail-covers. What little brasswork she had shone like gold, but as
far as possible all the metal work was galvanized iron, Her cockpit
was small, but owing to her beam and the narrowness of her raised
cabin-top, there was plenty of deck space. She was whaler-sterned--a
great advantage in a heavy following sea. On the port side was a
pair of davits from which hung a dinghy fitted with an outboard
motor. Every rope was neatly coiled, the decks were spotlessly
clean, while the white enamel on her sides glistened in the
sunlight.

"Come on board," said Mr. Clifton, "and see what you think of my
little ship."

The Sea Scouts descended the ladder from the quay, for the tide was
almost at the last of the ebb, and gained the deck. Down below the
accommodation was much larger than on board the _Puffin_. There was
a spacious saloon, with a motor neatly stowed away under the
companion-ladder. Beyond that were two small sleeping cabins
separated by an alley-way so narrow that a bulky man would have to
turn sideways to make his way along. Next to the cabins was a
galley, while right for'ard was a roomy fo'c'sle with a couple of
folding cots, above wide locker seats.

Lying at full length on one of the seats was a massive sheepdog,
who, finding the visitors were accompanied by his master, lazily
wagged his stumpy tail.

"Let me introduce you to Rex," said Mr. Clifton. "Rex, old boy,
these aren't ordinary visitors, so don't look as if you were bored
stiff. 'Shun, salute!"

With an agility that seemed remarkable from such a shaggy, ponderous
animal, the sheepdog sat up and brought his left paw up.

"That's right," exclaimed his master approvingly.

"Can you tell me," he continued, addressing the two Sea Scouts, "why
a dog almost invariably 'shakes hands' with his left paw? I don't
know."

The skipper glanced at his watch.

"Tide will be making to the west'ard in half an hour," he remarked.
"We'll begin to get under way."

Evidently Rex knew what was meant, for he descended from his
resting-place and scrambled up the ladder into the cockpit.

"Where are we making for, sir?" enquired Craddock.

"Winkhaven," replied Mr. Clifton. "It's only a twenty mile run. I
generally pay a visit there every summer. Then on to Mapplewick--my
home. Righto, get to work, lads."

"Are you using the motor, sir?" asked Carline.

"No," was the reply. "I never make use of it except when absolutely
necessary. Now, carry on as if I were not here. Let me see how you
can manage entirely by yourselves."

It was a big order. The Sea Scouts were absolutely new to the yacht,
but it put them on their mettle, which was exactly what Mr. Clifton
wanted.

He noted with satisfaction that they rolled the tyers neatly when
they removed them, and that they both took care to coil away each
halliard after they hoisted the main, mizzen and head sails.
Sheltered by the high buildings fronting the quay, the _Thetis_ lay
with her canvas rippling in the light air, held only by the fore and
aft warps.

"Let go for'ard," shouted Peter to his chum as he himself cast off
the stern-rope. "Give her a fend off with the boat-hook."

Slowly the ketch gathered way. Craddock took the helm. A puff filled
the towering canvas, and the water rippled under the yacht's
forefoot.

"In fenders," ordered Craddock. "We're away."

Then with slacked-off sheets the _Thetis_ turned past the pier-heads
and was soon curtseying to the wavelets of the open sea.




CHAPTER XX

THE CURMUDGEON


BOTH Sea Scouts revelled in the experience. Nor was Mr. Clifton less
delighted with the experiment. Provided his new crew kept up to
their present form he could afford to congratulate himself upon
having dismissed a drunken and untrustworthy paid hand in favour of
two keen lads who already possessed a sound knowledge of seamanship.

Three hours later the _Thetis_ rounded the bar-buoy at the entrance
to Winkhaven. Peter was rather sorry that the sea passage was over
so soon. He was also rather disappointed at the appearance of
Winkhaven--a wide expanse of land-locked water surrounded by low,
treeless ground fringed with mud-banks. There was a quay and a
collection of houses, but they lacked the picturesque aspect of
either Aberstour or Sablesham.

"Do we bring up here, sir?" he enquired.

"No, we are going right up the river as far as we can go," replied
Mr. Clifton. "It's a tidal river for nearly five miles, with a small
town--Ravensholm--at the end. Edge her off a bit, Peter. There's a
mud-spit extending a good ten yards outside that beacon."

Presently Craddock noticed a narrow gap in the shore that marked the
mouth of Ravensholm River. Here the wind headed the yacht and the
_Thetis_ had to make a number of short tacks.

It was exhilarating work beating to wind'ard in a stiff breeze, and
for a considerable time both Sea Scouts had plenty to do to tend
sheets, since Mr. Clifton had taken the helm.

Then the river took an abrupt turn. The wind was now abeam, and the
_Thetis_ travelled fast, "full and bye." The land, too, was
beginning to assume a hilly nature, with yellowish cliffs here and
there where countless ages ago the river had cut a passage through.

On the banks were several people who regarded the yacht with
considerable interest, since strangers who came to Ravensholm by
water were few and far between.

To one of these, a burly bearded farmer, the skipper of the _Thetis_
waved a greeting.

"Afternoon, Mr. Thorley," he shouted. "How are you?"

"Muddlin', thank you," was the reply. "Will you be wanting any milk
tonight, sir?"

"Rather," shouted Mr. Clifton. "We'll be coming along as soon as
we've moored up."

On glided the yacht past an ever-changing panorama. To port lay a
snug red-tiled farm. On the ground in front, sloping down to the
river, were between fifty and sixty sleek cows just in from the
rich, grassy meadows. On the gentle rise of the hillside were fields
heavy with golden wheat and barley waving in the breeze. Fat
hay-ricks and long, rambling barns were visible behind the house,
while ducks and geese were either swimming on the river or else
grubbing amongst the sedges and reeds.

Another bend brought the _Thetis_ in sight of the little town of
Ravensholm, nestling under the Norman church, the square tower of
which, surmounted by a recently-added spire, was a landmark for
miles around.

"Stand by to let go," ordered Mr. Clifton as a grey, seven-arched
bridge appeared in sight. "There's only one spot where we can anchor
here without taking ground at low water--and we don't want to do
that."

For the next twenty minutes Craddock and Carline were far too busy
to take stock of their surroundings, but when sails were stowed, and
the _Thetis_ moored fore and aft they were able to enjoy a
well-earned spell.

On the opposite side of the river was a modern glaring red-brick
house that seemed aggressively foreign to the mellowed buildings
that comprised the rest of the town. But it was not the house that
attracted the Sea Scouts' attention--it was the squat, ungainly
figure of a man standing on the lawn and staring fixedly at the
yacht.

He was between fifty and sixty years of age. His face was fat, he
appeared to have no neck. Rolls of adipose tissue puffed out his
cheeks to such an extent that his eyes were scarcely visible. His
complexion was of a dull, pasty-white hue, while his clothes hung on
him like sacks.

"Why's that fellow staring so?" asked Peter.

"Looking at the yacht, I suppose," replied Carline.

"He's not: he's looking at us," declared Craddock. "Wonder if he
knows Mr. Clifton?"

"Who's that? Another friend of mine?" exclaimed the skipper emerging
from his cabin. "No, thanks," he continued after a brief inspection.
"Never seen him before. All right, lads, let him look. We'll go
below and have tea."

The crew of the _Thetis_ were about half way through the meal when
Peter put down his cup and sniffed.

"Something burning," he announced.

"By Jove! There is," agreed Mr. Clifton, getting up and disappearing
into the fo'c'sle.

"No," he said, as he re-entered the cabin. "There's nothing
smouldering there. I thought that perhaps the stove was still
alight. See if everything's all right on deck, Carline."

Carline, who was sitting nearest the companion, went up the steps.

"It's a big bonfire, sir," he reported. "They're burning rubbish
across the river."

The skipper went on deck. From the garden of the glaring red-bricked
house dense clouds of vile-smelling smoke were drifting in the
direction of the _Thetis_, enveloping the yacht in a pall of acrid
vapour.

"Our friend the pasty-faced gentleman evidently resents our
presence," he remarked with a laugh. "Apparently he thinks he can
smoke us out. He won't."

"Dirty trick," commented Peter.

"But it won't affect us," added Carline. "'There's not much smoke
coming into the cabin. Besides, we've nearly finished tea."

Having completed the repast and cleared away, Mr. Clifton suggested
a spell ashore.

"We'll give Rex a run," he added. "And I'll call at the post office
in case there are any letters sent on for me."

The crew went ashore. On the bank were several people interested in
the yacht and the now diminishing smoke-screen.

"Measly old gent that, sir," remarked one jerking his thumb in the
direction of the cantankerous owner of the river-side property.
"'Think 'e owns all Ravensholm 'e do. Drat'n; if 'e wur to fall in
river this very minute I for one wouldn't fish 'im out."

The other onlookers supported this sentiment. Evidently Mr. Horatio
Snodburry, the obnoxious individual under discussion, was far from
being popular with his fellow-townsfolk.

At the post office, Mr. Clifton was handed three letters and a
newspaper. These he thrust into his pocket for future perusal. Then
by a circuitous route, including a visit to Mr. Thorley's farm for
milk, the crew of the _Thetis_ returned to the yacht.

There was still a knot of sightseers, dividing their attention
between the strange craft and the vindictive old fellow across the
river, who was still staring at the little yacht as if to mesmerise
her out of existence.

"Excuse me, sir," courteously exclaimed a well-dressed individual
standing on the bank. "Might I have a word with you?"

"Certainly," replied Mr. Clifton. "Come on board."

The gentleman accepted the invitation.

"My name is Brightwell," he announced. "I don't suppose that will
interest you. What is more to the point is that I am a solicitor
acting on behalf of Mr. Horatio Snodburry."

The skipper grinned cheerfully.

"Carry on, please," he said encouragingly.

"To be brief my client wants you to shift your berth lower down the
river."

"Does he own the river?"

"Oh, no. But, you see, you are rather obstructing his view."

"Precisely," agreed Mr. Clifton dryly. "This, being a tidal river,
is, I take it, under Admiralty jurisdiction. 'As far as the tide
shall flow' is the proper phraseology. And I think you, as a legal
man, will admit that no individual can possess or claim the sole
right to a view."

"That is so," admitted Mr. Brightwell. "The law does not admit of
such a thing, as a 'prescriptive right of view'. But my client
insisted that I should press his claim, although I told him he
hadn't a leg to stand on. Without people of that type," he added in
a burst of confidence, "the legal profession would be very, very
slack."

"We are not shifting our berth," declared Mr. Clifton. "For one
thing, I object to attempted coercion to the extent of trying to
smoke us out. For another, this is the only spot where my yacht can
lie afloat at low water, and a berth that for several years I have
occupied on every previous occasion."

The lawyer nodded approvingly.

"In the circumstances there is nothing further for me to say. I will
report the result of my interview with you to my client," he said,
and wishing Mr. Clifton good evening he went ashore.

"This is going to be exciting, lads," remarked the skipper. "I've
heard of Mr. Horatio Snodburry, but I haven't been up against him
before. We'll sit tight and enjoy the fun. By the bye, I mustn't
forget to read my correspondence."

Mr. Clifton read the first letter, which was evidently of little
importance. Then he ripped open the envelope of the second.

"Lads!" he exclaimed. "I've had bad news. My brother has been taken
seriously ill. 'Fraid I must catch the first train home. Look here,
will you do me a Good Turn? Stand by the yacht till I can get back.
It won't be more than a few days. This is most unfortunate."

"Of course we will, sir," replied both Sea Scouts.

"That's the sort," said Mr. Clifton. "You've taken quite a load off
my mind. There's a time-table in that rack over your head, Peter. Do
you mind?"

Craddock handed Mr. Clifton the time-table. A hasty examination
showed that there was a train at 7.15. It was now a quarter to
seven.

"I can just do it," declared the skipper, hastily packing a small
handbag. "Hope you'll have a good time. Sorry to leave you to the
tender mercies of Mr. Horatio Snodburry. Here are a couple of pound
notes for current expenses. Well, good-bye for the present and good
luck. I know Rex will be quite safe with you."

The next moment he had gone, leaving the boys with mixed feelings as
to what was to be the outcome of the report of the solicitor to his
client, Mr. Horatio Snodburry.




CHAPTER XXI

THE MISSING BIRDS


LEFT to themselves and with the big sheepdog as an entertaining
companion, Craddock and Carline settled down to their new task. It
was a decidedly novel experience to be "on their own" on a yacht in
entirely strange surroundings.

After breakfast on the following morning, Peter went shopping,
accompanied by Rex, who had accepted the Sea Scout as his temporary
master without any apparent hesitation. According to his wont the
big sheep-dog trotted on ahead, occasionally giving a backward
glance to reassure himself that Peter was following.

Presently Rex turned the corner leading into the High Street. Twenty
seconds later Peter followed, and nearly tripped over the prostrate
form of Mr. Horatio Snodburry, who was reclining ungracefully on the
pavement with a wretched-looking black dog hugged under one arm,
while his right hand grasped a long cane.

Without hesitation Craddock assisted the man to his feet. Snodburry,
giving Peter a vindictive look, muttering something uncomplimentary
about boys in general and Scouts in particular, hobbled away.

"Dashed if I would have helped the old blighter up," exclaimed one
of the shopkeepers. "He thinks he's the only fellow in Ravensholm
who owns a dog. Your animal was passing along as quietly as a lamb
when----"

"I thought, perhaps, that Rex tripped him up accidently,"
interrupted Peter.

"Not a bit of it," was the rejoinder. "He treats every dog the same
either lashes out with his stick or hacks at it. Only this time he
must have tried to kick with both feet at once and he 'bumped,
bumped, bumped just a little bit,' as the song goes. But there, I'd
best not say too much; Old Snodburry's a good customer of mine, but
you'll find out quite enough what he's like if you stay here."

"I have already, thanks," replied Peter. "He's rather interesting."

The same afternoon Carline went out in the dinghy, pulling up-stream
for nearly a mile above the bridge and drifting down with the strong
ebb tide.

Just as he was abreast of Mr. Snodburry's grounds, his attention was
attracted by a man running along the shore just below high water
mark and waving his hands above his head.

In front of the man were five or six ducks, quacking with fright.
Driving the birds into an unfenced meadow the man was joined by
another, and the pair herded the ducks into Mr. Snodburry's garden.

Carline ran the dinghy alongside the _Thetis_, made fast and went
below, thinking no more about the apparently trivial incident of the
ducks.

Two days passed uneventfully, except that Mr. Snodburry paid
periodical visits to the river front to gaze banefully at the
_Thetis_ and to regret that the prevailing wind rendered "gas
attack" impossible.

Then one afternoon Farmer Thorley passed along the bank.

"I'm a bit put out," he replied to the Sea Scouts' salutation.
"Yesterday I missed five of my ducks, and this morning I gets a
message from that Snodburry fellow saying that they've been
trespassing and that he's locked them up. I went to see him and he
says, 'Farmer, you'll have to pay me a sovereign for damage before
you get those ducks back.' 'A sovereign,' says I. 'That's a bit
thick, isn't it? What damage could they do to the extent of a
pound?' But I offers him a shilling a head, which he wouldn't take,
and tells me to think it over and let him know. And geese and ducks
from the farm have been free to run the river ever since I was a
lad, an' in my father's time afore me."

"Supposing some of your sheep were grazing in that field, Mr.
Thorley," said Carline, "and I drove one on to this gangway and then
on board the _Thetis_. Then, if I shut the hatch and sent to you to
say that you could have your sheep if you paid me a pound, what
would you do?"

The farmer looked curiously at the Sea Scout.

"Why," he replied, "I'd have the law on you for sheep-stealing."

"That's what has happened to your ducks, anyway," declared Carline,
and proceeded to relate what he had seen.

"Dang me!" ejaculated Mr. Thorley, slapping his thigh. "That puts a
different face to the matter. Thank you, lad, I'm off to the police
station."

The farmer hurried off. He was back in about an hour, his face
beaming.

"I saw the superintendent," he reported. "Super told me that if I
could get hold of 'em ducks without doing any damage to Old
Snodburry's property I'd best do so. Just to make sure I called on
Lawyer Tebbutt, and he said much the same. And as luck would have it
spied Old Snodburry driving to railway station, so he's out of the
way for some time, thank goodness! Will you lads do me another Good
Turn?"

"Rather," replied both Sea Scouts. "What do you want us to do?"

"I'll just run round to the market and borrow a poultry crate,"
continued Mr. Thorley. "Then if you young gents will put me across
the river in your little boat I think I can get my five ducks back
and save the shilling a head I offered him. I'd get my man Andrew to
bear a hand only he's away over Nine Acre field, and Tom 'e's gone
to Fleyton with the milk."

"We'll be glad to go with you," volunteered Peter.

"Good lads!" ejaculated the farmer. "I'll go up along and fetch the
crate."

A few minutes later the dinghy, deeply laden with a big farmer, two
hefty Sea Scouts and a spacious poultry coop, gained the opposite
bank.

Boldly the trio crossed the meadow. The gate of the enclosed garden
was ajar, a massive padlock with the key in it, dangling from a
stout chain.

Mr. Horatio Snodburry's two minions came out, but, evidently under
the impression that the farmer had "squared up" with their employer,
made no objection. In fact they assisted in putting the debatable
ducks into the crate.

In triumph, Farmer Thorley bore off his own property, Craddock and
Carline rowing him down to the farm.

When the Sea Scouts returned to the _Thetis_, there was a small
crowd on the bank.

"Fat's in the fire," exclaimed one of the onlookers. "Old
Snodburry's gone to the police station."




CHAPTER XXII

FIRE!


THAT night it blew half a gale. Secure in a sheltered berth the Sea
Scouts could make light of the elements, thankful that they were not
"caught out" in the open sea.

At about one o'clock in the morning, Peter was roused by the
_Thetis_ grinding against the piles of the stage close to which she
was moored. Evidently her quarter-warp had dragged the kedge.

"I'll put a fender out," decided Craddock, doubly careful since he
was in charge of a strange yacht.

He turned out just as he was, barefooted and in pyjamas. But when he
gained the cockpit all thoughts about putting out a fender vanished.
The air was thick with driving smoke that failed to conceal a mass
of deep red flame. The Snodburry mansion was on fire!

"Wake up, old man," exclaimed Peter to his slumbering chum. "Wake
up! Snodburry's house is all on fire."

In the shortest possible time the Sea Scouts threw on some clothes,
thrust their feet into their sea-boots and jumped into the dinghy.

A few strokes of the oars brought them to the opposite bank. Through
the smoke they dashed across the lawn and up to the house, where
they stumbled over the senseless form of one of the men-servants. It
was a moment's work to drag him clear of the falling embers. There
appeared to be no one else about on their side of the buildings. The
late inmates were on the opposite end, vainly striving to quench the
flames with buckets of water.

Already the whole of the ground floor was ablaze, while in one
corner the flames were bursting through the roof.

"Everyone's out, I think," spluttered Peter, half choked with the
fumes. "Let's release the horses and poultry. There's nothing more
that we can do."

It was as well, he thought, that Carline and he had already paid a
visit to the outbuildings. Up to the present the livestock were in
no great danger, although the neighing horses and loudly cackling
fowls were terrified by the roaring of the flames and the billowing
clouds of smoke.

"There is someone, though!" exclaimed Peter, pointing to an upper
window.

"Your imagination," declared Carline.

"No--look!"

A hand was fumbling with the casement. Then a face appeared,
horror-stricken, gasping.

"It's old Snodburry!" exclaimed Carline. "They've forgotten all
about him."

"Quick--bring a ladder!" shouted Peter. "There's one in the
stable-yard."

"Stand by to steady it," said Peter resolutely, as the ladder was
reared against the wall. "I'm going up--not you."

Waiting only to tie his scarf over his mouth and nose Craddock
ascended the ladder. One smart blow demolished the pane of glass
that enabled him to get to the casement fastening. The next instant
the window was wide open, a rush of smoke well nigh forcing the Sea
Scout from his precarious perch.

The room was full of smoke and in darkness. Leaning over the sill
Peter groped but found nothing. Then a spurt of reddish flame
darting through a charred portion of the floor revealed a huddled
figure lying half way between the window and the door.

Craddock hesitated no longer. With a diving-like movement he leapt
through the window on to the floor, that gave ominously as it felt
his weight. With smarting eyes and painfully drawn breath he crawled
over the hot floor-boards until he was able to seize the unconscious
form of Mr. Snodburry, and dragged him to the window.

Then came the critical time. The senseless man was too heavy. Peter,
in spite of his strength, was handicapped by the fumes, while the
window sill was waist-high from the floor.

Without knowing how he managed it, Peter heaved the helpless man
until his head and shoulders were without the window. Then he got
astride the sill and groped for the top rung of the ladder, by this
time unable to decide what to do. He was suffocating, but even in
his half stifled state he realised that if he let go of his burden,
Mr. Snodburry would probably break his neck by the fall.

A burst of flame from the lower window enveloped the ladder.
Something had to be done, and that quickly.

"Coming, Peter!" shouted Carline.

This time Craddock did not forbid him. He was only half conscious
that his chum was shouting, until Carline's head and shoulders
appeared above the flame-tinged smoke.

"Let go!" bawled Carline. "I've got him."

Peter let go. Like a sack of flour the bulky figure of Mr. Snodburry
vanished. There was a crash and the ladder disappeared.

Summoning up his last remaining strength Peter jumped and landed on
his hands and feet upon the soft turf.

Carline, with his left arm dangling helplessly, was dragging the
rescued man clear ... Brass helmets glinted in the firelight ...
That was the last Peter remembered until he found himself in bed.

The two Sea Scouts admitted next afternoon that they hadn't done so
badly and had got off lightly. Peter was slightly burnt about the
legs and had had the greater part of his hair and eyebrows singed
off; Carline had his left arm in splints with a fracture of the
wrist. They were in the Cottage Hospital, and in an adjoining bed
was Mr. Horatio Snodburry, whose neck had been saved at the expense
of Carline's wrist.

True to his trust, Peter, declaring that he felt quite all right,
went on board the _Thetis_ that evening, where he was warmly greeted
by Rex. Next day Mr. Clifton returned and Carline was sent home to
Aberstour by train.

According to the usual run of things, Mr. Horatio Snodburry ought to
have gratefully thanked the Sea Scouts for saving his life, and by
virtue of his escape ought to have lived for ever afterwards in love
and charity with his neighbours. But he did neither. Perhaps his
mind was still rankling over the pound that he might have got had
the Sea Scouts not assisted in recovering Farmer Thorley's ducks.




CHAPTER XXIII

CAUGHT BY THE SQUALL


"I CAN trust young Craddock to do anything or go anywhere within the
bounds of possibility," declared Scoutmaster Grant. "He's a bit
imaginative, I admit, and apt to jump to conclusions, but he's got
the makings of a fine, trustworthy man."

"He is certainly plucky," agreed Mr. Clifton. "And he has proved
himself very useful on board the _Thetis_. He seems to have
distinguished himself in several ways while I was off the yacht,
visiting my brother, who was taken suddenly ill. Yes, young
Craddock's a smart youngster, who would make a rattling good officer
of the Mercantile Marine, although I shouldn't be at all surprised
if his parents didn't shove him into a bank or make him cram up for
the Civil Service. I've known heaps of cases like that--strong,
healthy fellows condemned to a sedentary life when their one desire
is to go to sea. Hullo! here he comes."

Hurrying along the tow-path came Peter Craddock. The _Thetis_ was
lying at Ravensholm. For one thing, a spell of very bad weather had
detained her, and for another, Mr. Clifton had been compelled to
make several hurried journeys to his home and could not spare time
to take the yacht round to her laying-up port.

Craddock had remained on board almost continuously, but his holiday
was drawing to a close, and very soon he would have to bid farewell
to the sea until Easter.

Then, by what Peter considered to be a rare slice of luck,
Scoutmaster Grant found an opportunity of coming round to Ravensholm
to help Mr. Clifton take the _Thetis_ home. That meant that Craddock
would have what he had long been hoping for--a long sea passage in
the capable little yacht.

It was Tuesday morning. Craddock had been sent into the town to
purchase provisions for the voyage. The water tanks had already been
filled. All that remained on Peter's return was to unmoor and set
sail, then good-bye to Ravensholm and its fresh-water river, and "yo
ho!" for the rolling billows of the English Channel. Even Rex, the
sheep dog, seemed to have an inkling of what was in his master's
mind, for he had shaken off his usual lethargy and was frisking
about on deck as if to hurry on the process of getting under way.

The wind was well aft going down the river, and the _Thetis_ made
short work of the run. Instead of a series of short tacks, requiring
constant work with the sheets, as was the case when the _Thetis_
ascended the river, there was little to be done beyond an occasional
gybe when a bend in the course made such a manoeuvre imperative.

In a little over an hour the _Thetis_ had crossed the bar and was
responding to the gentle lift of the English Channel.

"Jolly fine, sir, to taste the spray," commented Peter as a feather
of foam flew in over the yacht's weather bow. "How long will the
passage take?"

Mr. Grant shook his head.

"Can't say," he replied. "It depends entirely upon whether the
breeze holds, since Mr. Clifton doesn't care to use the motor. At
this rate, we ought to make Mapplewick before dark."

Alas, for that surmise! Just about noon the wind failed entirely,
and the _Thetis_, with jack topsail set above her mainsail and a
jib-headed topsail over her mizzen, was helplessly becalmed. She had
set every possible stitch of canvas, but to no purpose. There she
lay, rolling sluggishly, with the main-boom swinging from side to
side with a succession of jerks that every sailing man knows and has
good cause to hate.

The rays of the sun beat pitilessly down upon the deck, while the
oily surface of the water reflected the glare and seemed to throw
off as much heat as that from the orb of day.

Mr. Grant gave an inquiring glance at his chum, but Mr. Clifton
shook his head.

"No," he replied, "we won't use the engine. Bad seamanship--very.
Motors weren't known in my young days, and we yachtsmen got on very
well without them. Always managed to fetch somewhere after a calm."

So they stuck it.

It was a tedious experience. Nothing could be done. The _Thetis_
wallowed and rolled, swept slowly and imperceptibly along by a
steady two-knot tide. The low-lying shore was invisible, there were
no buoys or beacons in sight, not even another sail--nothing to be
seen but an expanse of cloudless sky and mirror-like sea.

"How about grub?" inquired the owner of the _Thetis_, shaking off
his drowsiness and stretching his cramped limbs.

The suggestion met with unqualified approval.

"All right," added Scoutmaster Grant. "Craddock and I will get the
food ready, if you'll stand by the tiller."

Accordingly Peter made for the fo'c'sle and started up the Primus
stove, while Mr. Grant prepared the saloon table and foraged in the
tiny pantry.

The kettle was almost on the point of boiling when Mr. Clifton
shouted down the companion.

"On deck, you two! There's a brute of a squall coming!"

The warning was instantly acted upon. On gaining the deck Craddock
saw that it was not an exaggerated one. Less than a quarter of a
mile away the hitherto tranquil sea was being lashed into a
triangular sheet of white foam--one of those sudden squalls that,
although rare, are to be met with in British waters, and of which
the barometer gives little or no warning.

"Down with the jack-yarder!" ordered the skipper. "Take the helm,
Peter, and luff her up when the squall strikes her."

The two men sprang to the topsail halliard, sheet and downhaul. The
two latter "rendered" without a hitch, but the halliard obstinately
refused to run through the block.

"Jammed!" exclaimed Mr. Clifton, bringing all his weight to bear
upon the downhaul in a vain effort to lower the canvas. "Lower away
the peak! That'll ease her."

Before the peak halliard of the mainsail could be cast off from the
fife-rail belaying-pin, the squall struck the yacht. With a shrill,
eerie shriek the first puff hit the hitherto becalmed vessel, and in
spite of her stiffness threw her over almost on to her beam ends, so
much so that water poured in torrents over the lee coamings into the
water-tight cockpit.

The canvas groaned and shuddered at the furious blast, while the
jack-yard topsail blew out like a banner.

Vainly Craddock, hanging on like grim death, thrust the tiller hard
down. The _Thetis_ refused to answer to her helm. Sheets of
white-crested water flew completely over the cabin-top, wetting the
mainsail half-way up to the hounds. As for Mr. Grant and Mr.
Clifton, all they could do was to grip the nearest object of a
substantial nature and await developments. It was impossible to
release the head sheets, since the lee waterways were more than
knee-deep.

Above the noise of the elements came a report like the bark of a
quick-firer. A cloth of the mainsail had been slit from top to
bottom. Simultaneously the clew of the jib carried away, and the
sail flapping violently in the wind, added to the deafening din.

That proved a blessing in disguise. The carrying away of the jib
assisted the _Thetis_ to come up into the wind. More like a
submarine than a yacht, she sluggishly shook herself clear of the
water and began to gather way.

The worst was now over. The squall was of short duration, and
although the _Thetis_ was travelling fast, she was no longer in
danger of being capsized or dismasted. Yet in all conscience the
damage was serious.

"Where's Rex?" shouted Mr. Grant, knowing that the sheep dog had
been lying under the lee of the cabin skylight.

"Rex is all right," replied the dog's owner reassuringly. "He's a
knowing customer. Bolted down below a good twenty seconds before the
squall came. Righto, Peter, I'll take the helm."

A couple of short barks came from below. Mr. Clifton turned to the
Sea Scout.

"Nip below, Peter," he said, "and see what's wrong. I know the
meaning of that bark."

Craddock hurried down the companion-ladder. The saloon was in a
state of confusion. The heel of the yacht during the squall was too
great for the maximum inclination of the swing-table, consequently
the tea-things had slid off and were lying in a disordered heap on
the floor, together with the best part of the ship's library and the
cushion of the wind'ard bunk.

But it was not for that that Rex had given alarm.

The violent motion had unshipped the Primus stove from its gimbals
and the fierce blue flame had burnt a considerable part of the
fo'c'sle floor, notwithstanding the wet state of the boards. It was
owing to the latter circumstance that the fire was not more serious.
As it was, Peter replaced the stove, taking care to release the air
and quickly beat out the flames with a damp towel.




CHAPTER XXIV

OVERBOARD


THE _Thetis_, although out of immediate danger, was in a pitiable
plight. The wind was still fresh and the sea had worked up into
quite a nasty turmoil. The damaged jib had already been lowered and
unshackled from the traveller, but the jackyard topsail still
fluttered bannerwise from the mainmast head. The torn mainsail, too,
was shaking violently as the wind whistled through the long rent in
the centre cloth.

"We'll have to get that topsail down," declared Mr. Clifton. "I'll
go aloft. Stand from under, Peter."

If the truth be told, Mr. Clifton did not feel any too confident
over the job. Active enough in most respects, he did not relish work
aloft. On previous occasions his paid hand undertook tasks of that
description. Yet he was quite ready to essay the work of sending the
obstinate topsail down on deck.

"I'll go, sir," volunteered Peter.

Mr. Clifton looked very pleased, but the next moment he realised
that the job was a dangerous one.

"I'm used to going aloft," continued Craddock. "Am I not, Mr.
Grant?"

Scoutmaster Grant, who had relieved the owner at the helm, nodded
assent.

"He's as active as a monkey, Clifton. Up you go, Peter!"

The Sea Scout needed no second bidding. Grasping the main halliards
and using the mast-hoops as footholds he nimbly ascended to the
cross-trees. There he paused to decide upon a further course of
action.

It was far from comfortable. Although, as Peter had declared, he was
used to going aloft, the conditions were very different from those
he had previously encountered. The violent motion of the yacht was
considerably exaggerated at a height of thirty feet above the deck,
whilst the fiercely flogging mainsail threatened to sweep the Sea
Scout from his precarious position.

Shinning up the bare pole above the cross-trees Peter made the
discovery that the topsail halliard had "jumped" the block and was
wedged tightly between it and the sheave.

At present there was only one thing to be done. Drawing his sheath
knife he cut the rope. The topsail yard dropped, and before
Craddock could regain the deck the sail was lowered and secured by
Mr. Grant.


{Illustration: "THE FIERCELY FLOGGING MAINSAIL THREATENED TO SWEEP
THE SEA SCOUT FROM HIS PRECARIOUS POSITION."
                                                    [_P_. 150}


"Well done, Peter!" exclaimed both men as Craddock, breathless with
his exertions, rejoined them.

"Had to cut it, sir," declared the Sea Scout apologetically.

"Only what I expected," rejoined Mr. Clifton. "Take the helm while
we lower the mizzen topsail and mainsail. Keep her jogging along,
Peter."

Still further reducing canvas occupied the next ten minutes. The
_Thetis_, under staysail and mizzen, was now doing a bare three
knots, while to make matters worse the wind had veered and was now
dead against her.

"Not much chance of making Mapplewick before dark," commented Mr.
Grant.

"No, but we must carry on," added his companion. "There's no harbour
we can make for nearer than Winkhaven, and I don't want to retrace
our course all that way."

"She'll make a bad performance to wind'ard without the mainsail,"
remarked the Scoutmaster. "The best thing we can do is to patch the
canvas and trust to luck that it will hold."

"Our belated meal first," decided the owner. "We'll heave-to for
half an hour."

Once more the stove was lighted, and presently the famished crew was
enjoying a hearty meal, in spite of the disordered state of the
yacht below and aloft.

The plain but satisfying repast over, the _Thetis_ was put on her
course again, and Mr. Grant and Peter tackled the torn mainsail.
This they temporarily repaired by joining the rent edges by
herring-bone stitching, putting on in addition a patch of canvas cut
from the damaged jib.

This done, the mainsail was reefed and then rehoisted. The spitfire
jib was then set and the _Thetis_ increased her speed to a good five
knots, lying a point closer to the wind than before.

By this time it was within an hour of sunset. The wind was still
moderating and had veered another couple of points, so that it was
possible to set a course to pass within five miles of Mapplewick
before going about.

Nevertheless, it seemed very unlikely that the _Thetis_ would make
her port before dawn, since the harbour was a tidal one and could
only be entered between half flood and half ebb.

At length darkness set in. The port and starboard lamps were lit and
the electric lamp of the binnacle switched on. The breeze still
held, but there seemed every prospect of another calm before very
long.

At eleven o'clock the occulting light on Probert Head became
visible, bearing a point on the starboard bow. Mapplewick Harbour
lay in a bay three miles beyond the head.

"More grub," decided the skipper. "Peter, if you will take the helm
for a spell we'll get our supper. Then you can have yours and turn
in."

"I'm not sleepy, sir," protested Craddock.

"You will be," said Mr. Clifton. "A few hours' rest will do you
good. Keep her as she is, she'll almost sail herself. Shout if you
sight anything."

The two men went below, leaving Craddock in charge of the deck.

"That youngster's proved himself a brick!" declared Mr. Clifton
warmly. "You ought to be proud of him, Grant."

"I am," agreed the Scoutmaster, as he started up the stove.
"Curiously enough, he'd hardly been afloat before he joined the
troop, but he seemed to tumble to things naturally. His father is a
farmer in a fairly big way. His grandfather was also a farmer, so it
seems strange that the boy should suddenly develop a real
sailorman's instincts."

"Possibly if you traced further back you'd find that he had an
ancestor who was a pirate, smuggler or merchant adventurer,"
suggested Mr. Clifton. "The seafaring strain must have skipped
several generations and suddenly developed in young Craddock.
Sailors are born, not made, you know."

They conversed in loud tones, for the buzzing of the Primus stove
and the thud of the waves against the yacht's weather bow rendered
conversation in an ordinary tone inaudible.

Once Rex stirred himself and gazed intently through the companion
into the dark night, but the action was unnoticed by either of the
two men. Apparently satisfied the sheep-dog stretched himself at
full length on one of the bunks.

"Kettle's boiling," announced Mr. Clifton, opening the valve of the
stove. "Pass along the teapot, please."

The roar of the stove died away.

The two men sat down to the hurried meal.

Happening to glance upwards at the tell-tale compass in the roof of
the deckhouse, Mr. Grant gave an exclamation of surprise.

"Hello!" he remarked. "What's Peter doing--dozing? We're four points
off our course."

"All right, Peter?" shouted Mr. Clifton.

There was no response.

"Asleep on duty," continued the skipper of the _Thetis_ jokingly.
Then louder: "Peter! Wake up! You're letting her shake!"

Still there was no reply.

The two men exchanged glances. Each read on the other's face an
unspoken fear. Simultaneously they made for the companion-ladder,
colliding in their frantic rush on deck. Coming directly from the
brilliantly-lighted saloon, they could see nothing at first, save
the faint gleam of the binnacle lamp. That, they knew, ought to be
playing upon the figure of the helmsman. It did not, merely
flickering upon the gently flapping mizzen.

"Peter!" shouted the Scoutmaster, vainly hoping that Craddock might
have gone for'ard.

"'Fraid he's fallen overboard!" exclaimed Mr. Clifton. "Haul on the
mizzen-sheet, Grant. We'll put about. He can't have gone very long."

The owner of the _Thetis_ put the helm hard over. The Scoutmaster
fumbled for the mizzen-sheet. Only a few feet remained, one end
frayed like a small mop-head.

As the yacht swung head to wind before falling off on the other
tack, Mr. Grant secured the swaying mizzen-boom, then going for'ard
and steadying himself by the fore-stay he peered through the
darkness, shouting at intervals in the hope of hearing a response
from the lost Sea Scout.

It was a hopeless task. Both men realised the extreme unlikeliness
of the yacht retracing her course. All they could do was to make
short tacks, in the hope that by so doing they might pass within
hailing distance.

"He's a good swimmer," declared Mr. Grant.

"Ten miles from the nearest land," rejoined his companion gloomily.
"Might have got a crack on the head as he went overboard. I was a
fool to let him remain on deck alone."

"I'm more to blame," declared Mr. Grant. "But settling the
responsibility will not find him. Ahoy!" he hailed for the twentieth
time.

There was not even a mocking echo in reply. The waste of darkened
water, where no doubt Peter was still swimming for dear life, was an
impenetrable veil. For a distance of twenty yards or so the red and
green navigation lamps threw their coloured rays upon the water.
Beyond that sea and sky were merged into a wall of utter darkness.

All the rest of that long night the _Thetis_ cruised round the spot
where it was supposed the yacht had been when the catastrophe
occurred; then with the first streaks of red dawn in the eastern sky
the _Thetis_ bore up for Mapplewick.




CHAPTER XXV

SAFE AND SOUND


AT six o'clock the _Thetis_, with her ensign flying at half-mast,
staggered into Mapplewick Harbour. Willing hands assisted to berth
her alongside the jetty--a willingness prompted by the sight of the
half-masted colours, while a crowd of curious onlookers could hardly
be restrained from questioning the two grey-faced men who formed the
crew of the storm-beaten yacht.

Half-dazed by the magnitude of the calamity, Grant and Clifton went
ashore to perform their sad duty--to report the loss of one of the
crew and to telegraph the grim tidings to Craddock's parents.

At noon Mr. and Mrs. Craddock arrived by train.

They were met by the Scoutmaster, who fully expected to be
reproached by the missing lad's parents; but not a word of that sort
escaped them. They were yet to realise their loss, and were still
buoyed up in the hope that Peter would yet be restored to them.

For a fortnight they remained at Mapplewick. Mr. Grant remained,
too. Nothing would induce him to return to Aberstour while there was
a chance that the sea might give up the body of the drowned Sea
Scout.

But in spite of the assurances of the fisherfolk that the corpse
would be washed ashore in Mapplewick Bay at any time after the ninth
day, the fortnight passed without that grim event taking place. The
sea, lashed into fury by a prolonged Equinoctial gale, refused to
give up its secret.

At length, with hope all but extinguished, Peter's parents returned
to Aberstour. Mr. Grant went with them. He was utterly overwhelmed
by the disaster--a prey to self reproaches that he had not taken
better care of the boy. He remembered with a pang of remorse his
confident assurances to Mr. Clifton that Craddock could be trusted
to do almost anything. Peter had proved his resourcefulness in time
of danger, yet in a comparatively light wind he had vanished.

"I can never bring myself to go afloat with the troop again," he
thought to himself, dreading the time when the _Puffin_ was due to
be put into commission with her youthful crew.

One morning the Scoutmaster was interrupted in the midst of shaving
by a violent knocking on the front door.

"There's Mr. Craddock to see you, sir," announced his landlady
through the closed door of the bathroom, followed by a loud
hammering of the caller's fists.

"News--good news!" exclaimed Mr. Craddock excitedly when the two men
were face to face. "Read this, Mr. Grant. Peter's safe!"

He thrust a bulky envelope into the Scoutmaster's hands.

"Read it!" he repeated. "Everything's all right now, but it fair
puzzles me how Peter got there."

With this rather vague remark Mr. Craddock sat down, breathing
heavily, for he had been running.

Mr. Grant read the letter. It was from Peter, and was headed, "s.s.
_Boanerges_, Bahia, Brazil."

It was a breezy letter, relating at some length Peter's adventures
on the High Seas between Las Palmas and South America.


"I'm quite happy," it went on, "only I'd like to see you all again
very soon. We're off round the Horn and then to Sydney and
Singapore. I'm now rated as Able Seaman, and it's a topping life.
Hope you got my letter and cablegram from Las Palmas.
                "Your ever loving son,
                            "PETER CRADDOCK."

"We never got either, but I suppose they'll come along soon," said
Mr. Craddock, referring to the last passage of his son's letter.
"I'm real curious to know how he got picked up."

"And so am I," added the Scoutmaster, who looked as if he were ten
years younger than he did ten minutes before. "And won't he be able
to tell some stories of his adventures when he does return! Able
seaman already, too."

"Ay," said Mr. Craddock. "Sounds grand--not that I know what an
able seaman is exactly. 'Tany rate, he says he's doing well, thanks
to his training as a Sea Scout."



          THE END.

  MADE AND PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY
  PURNELL AND SONS PAULTON (SOMERSET) AND LONDON 




[
  Transcriber's Notes: 
  
  This book contains a number of misprints. The following misprints 
  have been corrected: 

  [even amongst rogues.] → [even amongst rogues."] 

  [without watertight] → [without water-tight] 
    {both spellings occur in the paper version. To make it
    consistent, the latter (also the most frequent spelling in this
    book) has been chosen}

  [Ill try not to,] → [I'll try not to,] 

  [outside that beacon.] → [outside that beacon."] 

  [ten minutes before. And] → [ten minutes before. "And] 

  [the accomodation on] 
  {What appears to be a misprint was actually put in the text
  deliberately, as can be concluded from the text} 

  The second item in the "List of illustrations" refers to page [60].
  This has been corrected to page [61] 

  
  The paper version of this book uses italic text to emphasize parts
  of the text. In the 'plain text' version that will be indicated
  thus:

    _italic text_

]



*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 74975 ***