THE BOYS OF THE "PUFFIN"

THE

BOYS OF THE "PUFFIN"

A SEA SCOUT YARN

PERCY F. WESTERMAN

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:—

"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."