The Kestrel was in an unfavourable position to withstand the first of the squall. She was running almost dead before the present breeze. Should the blast come from even a slightly different direction there was the great risk of an involuntary gybe. The main and mizzen booms would swing over with terrific force and either carry away the runners or else spring one or both masts.

Fortunately, Craddock kept his head. Shouting to Talbot to ease the head-sheets, he put the helm down gently.

The squall came. In spite of the canvas shaking as the wind “spilled” it, the ketch heeled till her lee rail was awash; then, recovering, she leapt forward like a racehorse as Peter cautiously took a strain on the mainsheet.

At a warning shout, Mr. Grant hurried up from below, saw what Craddock had done, and nodded approval.

“She’s as stiff as a house,” he exclaimed reassuringly. “All the same, we’ll have the mizzen sail off of her while it’s still light . . . and the big jib as well. Bear a hand, Brandon, to get our patient below. He may get knocked about if he remains here.”

The injured man was showing signs of returning consciousness. He moaned as he was being lifted, opened his eyes, and gazed blankly into the Scoutmaster’s face.

“You’re all right,” said Mr. Grant consolingly.

The patient closed his eyes and gave no further sign of movement. With difficulty, owing to the erratic motion of the yacht, they carried him down the narrow companion way and into the Scoutmaster’s cabin.

While this was being done Craddock put the Kestrel into the wind and hove-to, while canvas was being reduced. Stowing and furling the mizzen sail was accomplished with little difficulty; but the task of taking in the No. 1 jib and substituting the No. 3 took some doing. The yacht pitched so violently in the rapidly rising sea that Heavitree and Symington, on whom this task devolved, were frequently waist-deep in water as they knelt on the fore-deck and struggled with out-haul and jib-halliards and sought to muzzle the fiercely flapping canvas.

At last the business of reducing sail was accomplished, and the Kestrel put on her former course. With whole mainsail, staysail, and baby-jib she made splendid weather of it. In fact, she could have stood more canvas; but in view of night approaching it was prudent to keep her well under control, especially as the now hard wind might increase in force.

Meanwhile the side-lights had been placed in position. Both had been tested during the process of fitting out, but now for some unaccountable reason the starboard lamp refused to keep alight.

“This is no light matter on a dark night,” said Heavitree. “No joke intended, Peter! Any good trying a handkerchief round the ventilation holes?”

“Might do it,” replied Craddock. “It seems as if the thing isn’t getting enough air as it is. However, see what you can do.”

Cautiously making his way for’ard, Heavitree grasped the shrouds with one hand and with the other removed the lamp from the screen. He had to take it into the saloon to relight it, and at the same time he wound his handkerchief loosely round the lower part of the lamp. Almost as soon as he regained the cockpit the light went out.

“You’re whacked, old son!” exclaimed Craddock.

“Am I—you see!” retorted Heavitree as he went below again with the extinguished lamp.

In a few minutes he returned with the green light gleaming exceptionally brightly. Curiously Peter watched his chum go for’ard, expecting every second to see the light vanish. It didn’t.

Heavitree refixed the lamp and came aft. It gave no further trouble. The resourceful Sea Scout had removed the oil reservoir and had substituted his small electric flash lamp.

The Kestrel was now maintaining quite a good speed. Peter took it to be at least eight knots, but perhaps like most amateurs he was apt to overestimate the vessel’s rate. In spite of the curling, crested waves, she came through with hardly any water on her decks, and although at times the following seas appeared high and menacing, she rode them in a manner that gave everyone the greatest confidence in her seagoing qualities.

“Light on the port bow, sir!” reported Wilson.

“Your eyes are sharper than mine, then,” rejoined the Scoutmaster, after a prolonged look in the direction indicated.

“There it is again, sir,” declared the lad. “Two quick flashes!”

“I see them, too,” added Talbot.

“So do I,” agreed Mr. Grant. “Well, now we know where we are, more or less. That’s the Eddystone.”

He took a rough compass bearing and went below to apply the reading to the chart. The result rather surprised him. According to the calculation, the Kestrel ought to have been farther to the south’ard. Either there was considerable deviation of the compass, or else the yacht had been carried northwards by a tidal current. Leeway did not enter into the problem, as the Kestrel had been running free—except for two brief intervals—from the time she picked up the breeze.

It was something to be able to pick up the Eddystone light, but the knowledge alone could not determine the Kestrel’s position. A second bearing cutting the first as near as possible at right angles would fix that.

By the aid of his night glasses, the Scoutmaster swept the horizon away to the nor’ard, hoping to pick up St. Catherine’s light at the entrance to Fowey Harbour. But the night was still hazy, and the light was invisible.

A tramp steamer passed at about a cable’s length to port. The moon emerging from a bank of scudding clouds showed her plunging heavily into the head seas. Frequently showers of glistening spray completely hid her bows and flew high over her bridge. Yet the Kestrel, flying before the wind, was making easy weather of it.

Mr. Grant was now confronted with a difficult problem: whether to carry on or to bear up and run for shelter into Plymouth Sound. On first thoughts he favoured the latter alternative. With an injured man on board, and having several hours before dawn to make for shelter, this seemed the obvious thing to do. Then he considered the difficulties. He had never been into Plymouth before. He was a stranger to the intricate currents inside the breakwater. The Sound and Hamoaze were generally crowded with shipping. The numerous navigation and riding-lamps were apt to be particularly perplexing to a stranger, and there was no small risk of disaster should an error of judgment occur.

On the other hand, the Kestrel was proving herself to be a capital sea-boat. Better then to hold on, keeping plenty of sea-room, and gain the sheltered waters of Start Bay at daybreak.

Mr. Grant chose the latter alternative and stuck to it. Indecision he held to be worse than incompetence. A person in charge of a vessel and unable to make up his mind was a menace to his crew; an incompetent skipper, although a despicable character, could be superseded in a critical situation by a better man.

Keeping Craddock and Heavitree on deck, the Scoutmaster took the helm and told the rest of the crew to turn in. The two hefty Sea Scouts were sufficient to assist him in the management of the yacht in a stiff blow at night. The others would only be in the way. In addition they would be as limp as rags in the morning.

At 1 a.m. the Eddystone was abeam at a distance of about two miles. It was still too hazy to pick up the powerful Start light, and there was no object in “cracking on” and arriving off that dangerous headland before dawn.

Accordingly a couple of reefs were taken in the mainsail, and the staysail was lowered and “bonneted” to the bowsprit. Even then the Kestrel maintained a fair speed and rode the waves like a cork, with the dinghy’s bows high in the air as she strained at the end of a double length of stout 50-feet rope.

“Isn’t this top-hole, sir?” exclaimed Peter enthusiastically. “I’d rather be in the Kestrel than in that tramp which passed us some time ago.”

Before the Scoutmaster could offer any remark Brandon came out of the cabin.

“The man has come to,” he announced oracularly.

“How does he feel? Did he say?” asked Mr. Grant.

“Said he was thirsty, sir.”

Telling Craddock to take the helm, Mr. Grant went below.

He found the rescued man quite rational in spite of the serious injury to his head. Reiterating the fact that he was thirsty, he continued by asking where he was.

The Scoutmaster explained.

“You’re quite safe,” he continued. “But I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with the limited accommodation on board until we can put you ashore. I’ll give you something to drink; after that you must try all you can to get to sleep.”

“It du seem queer loike tu wake up an’ find myself here,” said the man, as he watched the preparation of the beverage. “Last I remember wur I wur sittin’ in——”

“Don’t worry about that now,” interrupted Mr. Grant. “After you’ve slept a few hours it will be interesting to hear your story. What’s your name, by the by?”

“Marner—Dick Marner,” was the not altogether unexpected reply.

“Light on our port bow, sir!” reported Craddock.

“How far off?” asked Mr. Grant, through the open skylight.

“Miles, sir,” replied Peter. “Another lighthouse, I fancy.”

“Good! I’ll be on deck in a minute,” rejoined the Scoutmaster.

Having reassured himself that Marner was comfortable and almost on the point of falling asleep, Mr. Grant left the cabin and entered the saloon. Here he paused and held his hand close to the swinging lamp.

“H’m!” he remarked in an undertone, as he examined the somewhat jagged cut. “It’s a case of the cobbler being the worst shod, I suppose. I’m always impressing upon the boys the absolute necessity of guarding against blood-poisoning, and in my case it’s precept without practice. Better late than never: I’ll smother the gash with iodine.”

He opened the medicine-chest, found and uncorked the iodine bottle.

“Finger’s throbbing already, I fancy,” he continued.

“How’s your hand, sir?” asked Brandon. “Let me bind it up for you.”

“Thought you were sound asleep, Frank,” remarked the Scoutmaster. “Thanks awfully, if you will.”

The Patrol Leader slipped out of his bunk and, taking the bottle, poured a few drops into the jagged wound. The sting of the iodine made Mr. Grant wince.

“That ought to do the trick, sir,” continued Brandon. “I’ll put a bandage round your hand. I wouldn’t use it if I were you; but there, you know all about that sort of thing, sir.”

“I’m supposed to,” admitted the Scoutmaster. “Unfortunately, when it comes to a personal matter one is apt to let such things slide. That’s quite comfortable. Now I’ll see what the watch on deck are doing.”

“Do you want me, sir?” asked Brandon. “I’ll turn out, if you like. I’d be only too pleased to.”

“No need,” replied Mr. Grant. “Sleep while you can. I may want you when we enter harbour, but that may be hours yet.”

Going on deck, Mr. Grant found that the light Peter had reported was two points on the port bow. By the nature of the flashes—one every second—he recognised it as The Start.

“We’re timing things very nicely,” he observed. “By the time that light’s abeam, it will be dawn. Then we’ll have to close haul in the first tack and get under the lee of the line. We’ll make for Dartmouth and land our passenger. He’s just told me his name is Marner, son of old Dick Marner.”

“The pal of Blueskin Bone, sir?”

“Hope not,” replied Mr. Grant, laughing. “The old man denied the acquaintanceship. However, that’s done with; Blueskin fades out of the picture like a bad dream.”

Almost before the fact could be realised dawn broke. A rosy flush spread over the north-eastern sky, revealing a turmoil of angry, grey-crested waves, for the Kestrel was only a mile or so to the south’ard of The Start, and was feeling the effect of the weather-going tide surging over the ledge of submerged rocks, extending from that bold and dangerous headland.

The yacht was rolling heavily as she ran, but her seaworthiness was now fully established. She was making better weather of it than a vessel of three or four times her tonnage.

“Nor’east a quarter north, now,” ordered the Scoutmaster. “A pull on the mainsheet, Heavitree. I’ll see to the head-sheets.”

Craddock put the helm down. Round came the Kestrel until the youthful helmsman “met her” on the required course. She was now almost, but not quite, close-hauled. The rolling motion gave place to a fairly steady heel. Showers of spray flew inboard over her weather bow, while her lee-bow wave creamed and frothed in a way that gave a fairly true indication of the speed she was making. After running for hours the sense of being close-hauled was unmistakably thrilling.

“Isn’t she hopping it, eh?” exclaimed Heavitree, as he coiled down the flake of the mainsheet. “Hello, sir! Look what you’ve done.”

The Scoutmaster followed the direction of the Sea Scout’s glance. The bandage on his hand was dyed red.

“Must have opened the cut when I handled the jib-sheet,” he thought. “Well, it’s a good thing it was covered up; no dirt can get to it.”

“It’s nothing much,” he remarked casually. “Now, you fellows, let’s see who has the keenest eyesight. There should be a conical buoy on our port bow about a couple of miles off.”

“I see it, sir!” exclaimed Heavitree almost at once. “It’s dead on with our bowsprit-end.”

“Is it, by Jove!” ejaculated Mr. Grant. “Up helm, Peter! At that! We’re closer in than I thought. We might have piled the Kestrel on The Skerries. See those houses just under The Start? That’s Beesands, or what’s left of it. Most of the village was washed away in a gale. The fishermen there train dogs to swim out to the returning boats and swim back with a line. It takes some doing in a rough sea. We’re in smoother water now. Do you see that high point of land ahead, Peter? Steer for that; never mind the compass.”

Pointing out various places of interest ashore, Mr. Grant chatted briskly in order to arouse the obviously flagging spirits of the two lads. They had stuck it well during the night watches, and now they kicked against the suggestion that they should go below to be relieved by Brandon and Talbot.

“Why not bother about the compass, sir?” asked Peter.

“Because for the present it isn’t absolutely necessary,” explained Mr. Grant. “When you’ve a fixed object to steer by, it saves the strain of peering into the binnacle-hood. You fellows have had quite enough of that to-night, or rather last night. Now, Heavitree, nip below and get the stove going. Nothing like a cup of hot cocoa in the early morning after a long trick. When it’s ready, tell Brandon to turn out. We’ll want an extra hand if we have to beat in. This wind will head us, I fancy, when we’re abreast the Homestone.”

The Kestrel was now so steady that Heavitree had no difficulty in lighting the stove. In about ten minutes his tousled head appeared, framed in the companion.

“Cocoa’s ready, sir,” he announced, “and all the others are awake and want cocoa too.”

“You want me, sir?” asked Brandon, as he edged past Heavitree in the companion.

“Yes, please,” replied Mr. Grant. “Have your cocoa and a biscuit first, then tell the others to get their breakfasts when they’re dressed. We don’t want too many on deck, if we’ve to tack in. And, while you are about it, you might hand me the chart of Dartmouth Harbour.”

Six o’clock was striking as the Kestrel, at one moment heeling to the fierce blasts that swept down from the lofty ground and at another gliding with canvas hanging idly in a flat calm, made her way between the twin castles of St. Petrox and Kingswear, and gained the land-locked harbour of Dartmouth. Fortunately the first of the flood tide was setting in, and without much difficulty the yacht gained its anchorage.

“There’s a vacant buoy,” observed Mr. Grant, pointing to one a short distance astern of a small tramp steamer. “We’ll pick it up. It will be much safer than riding to a kedge. We’ll have to get another anchor some time to-day, and the sooner the better. Now, Brandon, let’s see how you come up to moorings.”

Considering the Patrol Leader was as yet almost a stranger to the Kestrel’s capabilities he managed remarkably well. Judging the distance to a nicety, he put the helm down and shot the yacht up into the wind. Heavitree running for’ard picked up the buoy with a boat-hook, and hauling in the buoy rope passed the mooring chain round the bitts before the yacht had time to “fall off.”

“Well done!” exclaimed Mr. Grant approvingly. “Down canvas! Then breakfast and a jolly good sound sleep!”

“Could do with both, sir,” agreed Craddock feelingly.

But the Scoutmaster had much to do before he could enjoy an already well-earned rest. As soon as the post-office opened he went ashore in the dinghy and telegraphed to old Marner the news of his son’s safety. Also he had to report the matter to the Registrar of Shipping. He then took the opportunity of communicating with Scoutmaster Pendennis at Falmouth, acquainting him of the fact that the Kestrel had arrived at Dartmouth under somewhat unusual conditions and expressing a hope that even yet the Merlin and the Kestrel would be able to cruise in company.

His next business was to make arrangements with the local representative of the Shipwrecked Mariners Aid Society, to have Dick Marner taken ashore and sent home by train.

Finally, he bought another anchor to replace the one lying on the bed of Falmouth Harbour.

He returned on board to find all the crew asleep with the exception of Carline, who had been told off to keep anchor watch.

“You’d better turn in, too, Carline,” said Mr. Grant. “We aren’t getting under way to-day, and perhaps not to-morrow either. We want fair weather for the run past Portland Bill, and, judging by this morning’s sunrise, we aren’t going to get it just at present.”

Going to his own cabin, Mr. Grant saw that Marner was awake.

“Feelin’ fine, sir,” replied the man in answer to the Scoutmaster’s enquiry. “But I’m fair hungry. That beef tea was all very well, but it don’t fill a man’s innards, in a manner o’ speakin’, sir. Can’t I have somethin’ as ’as got summat to bite at?”

“I think so, now,” said Mr. Grant, smiling at the Cornishman’s quaintly phrased request. “And a boat’s coming for you some time before noon. You’ll be given your fare to Falmouth, and with luck you’ll be home to-night. But you’ll have to be careful with that head of yours, and not shake yourself up too much on your motor bike.”

A look of bewilderment spread over the bronzed features of Dick Marner, junior.

“Moty bike, sir?” he rejoined. “Can’t say as I follers what you’m meaning.”

It was Mr. Grant’s turn to look surprised. Could it be that Marner was suffering from partial loss of memory owing to the injury to his head?

“Surely you remember your motor bicycle at your father’s place at Polkebo?”

“Never ’ad a moty bicycle in my life, sir,” was the astounding reply. “Couldn’t ride un if I ’ad.”

The Scoutmaster made no comment, but thought the more. Apparently the situation required careful handling, but before he could frame a suitable question, Dick Marner continued:

“Now I comes to think on it, the moty cycle you seed was Blueskin Bone’s. ’E an’ fayther are neighbours like; an’ Blueskin ain’t got no shed in ’is garden, and ’aving trouble to get moty cycle up the girt steps to ’is door, ’e keeps un in fayther’s shed.”

“So that’s it,” thought Mr. Grant. “I wish I’d known that when I interviewed Mr. Marner, senior, the sly old rascal! However, Blueskin’s a back number as far as we are concerned. That’s something to be thankful for.”

The presence of the Aberstour Sea Scouts’ yacht Kestrel in Dartmouth Harbour attracted a fair amount of interest, but none more than that shown by a tall, heavily built, and loose-jowled deck-hand on board the S.S. Lumberjack.

Leaning over the bulwark of the tramp and shading his face with his hands, the man gazed so intently at the newly arrived yacht that one of his shipmates was struck by his studied interest.

“Lor’, Blueskin!” he exclaimed. “Wot’s strikin’ your fancy now? Ain’t you never seen a crowd o’ Sea Scoutses afore?”

Carlo Bone spat contemptuously into the scuppers.

“Axin’ for trouble, them is,” he remarked.

“An’ so’ll you be if the Old Man sees you hangin’ on to the slack,” rejoined the other. “Bear a hand an’ help shift this ’ere dunnage.”

The S.S. Lumberjack was lying within a hundred yards of the mooring which the Kestrel had picked up. She had arrived a few days before, having developed engine trouble in that antiquated box which required all the skill and patience of a dour Scots engineer to take the old tramp along at even a modest five knots.

The sight of the Kestrel acted like a red rag to a mad bull as far as Blueskin Bone was concerned. The mere knowledge that had it not been for “them Sea Scoutses” he might have become the owner of the craft never ceased to anger him. Even when, acting upon the idea that Polkebo was getting too hot for him, he had shipped aboard the S.S. Lumberjack his resentment did not die down; it merely smouldered, to be revived to white heat when, quite unexpectedly, the Kestrel came in with the flood tide from the boisterous waters of the English Channel.

“If she ain’t mine,” he muttered, “she won’t be nobody’s—not if I can ’elp it. Too mighty cute those chaps wur last time—when they thought as I wur about. If they don’t see I, maybe they won’t be so plaguey wideawake.”

For the rest of his watch Blueskin spent most of the time taking furtive glances at the Kestrel and cudgelling his brains to devise some cunning plan to gain his ends. In order to conceal himself from observation from the Kestrel, he even declined to go ashore that evening, much to his shipmates’ surprise.

Long after the hands had turned in that night Blueskin lay awake. When at length silence reigned in the stuffy fo’c’sle of the S.S. Lumberjack, Carlo Bone slipped out of his bunk, barefooted and wearing only a pair of canvas trousers.

It was a pitch dark night. Heavy clouds overspread the sky. A hard blow was raging out in the Channel, and even the land-locked waters of Dartmouth Harbour were foam-flecked. The flood tide was on the point of turning. In fact, all the shipping at anchor on the Kingswear side were riding head to wind. Eighty yards or so away, the riding-light of the Kestrel see-sawed as the yacht rolled and strained at her borrowed moorings.

Groping about in the darkness, Blueskin soon found what he wanted: an iron bucket to which he had previously attached a short length of flexible steel wire. The bucket he lowered over the ship’s side by means of a piece of spun yarn until it hung just above the surface.

Giving a final look round to reassure himself that no one was on deck, Blueskin lowered himself into the water. Then, casting off the lashing that held the bucket, he struck out for the Kestrel, pushing the bucket in front of him.

Like most Cornishmen, Blueskin Bone was a powerful swimmer, and an expert diver. It was mere child’s-play to him to swim to the yacht’s stern, partly fill the bucket to make it float upright, and then to dive with the free end of the flexible wire in his grasp.

Blueskin had seen the Kestrel high and dry so often that he was well acquainted with the way in which her rudder fastenings were fixed. In the darkness the task he had in hand presented no difficulty. Quickly he passed the end of the wire between the rudder and the stern-post just above the lower pintle, and came to the surface with the steel rope still in his hand.

His next act was to bend the end of the wire to the handle of the bucket, so that both extremities were secured close together. The bucket was now firmly attached to the Kestrel’s rudder by the doubled parts of the wire.

“That’ll ’old till the crows come ’ome,” he muttered, as he tugged at the last hitch of the rope.

Tilting the bucket, Blueskin allowed it to fill and sink. It was now suspended at the end of a few feet of steel wire immediately under the yacht’s stern-post.

Having accomplished what he had set out to do, Carlo Bone swam back to the Lumberjack, swarmed up her side, removed and wrung out his trousers, and crept back to his bunk.

“Reckon I ain’t cried quits wi’ ’em yet,” he muttered, recalling with mingled feelings of humiliation and anger the incident when he was knocked out by a mere youth. “ ’Tany rate, I’ve done summat t’wards gettin’ my own back. Like as not them’ll have a leadin’ wind outer ’ere when them starts. An’ a fair tide. But when it comes tu goin’ about like in the Range, that there bucket’ll make ’em miss stays. They’ll be fair on the rocks afore they knows where they be.”

There was deep cunning in Carlo Bone’s plan. He counted upon the Kestrel getting under way with a fair wind and a fair tide. The crew would not be likely to notice that they were towing a bucket under the stern, although the drag would be considerable. But in the Narrows, at the entrance to the harbour, the baffling wind and the set of the tidal current would compel the Kestrel to attempt at least one tack. Then the impediment caused by the bucket would be more than sufficient to make her “miss stays,” and in that hopeless state she would be driven upon the saw-edged rocks to lee’ard almost before her crew realised their danger.

Chuckling sardonically, Blueskin lay awake in his bunk until nearly dawn—the dawn of a day on which, if his plans went aright, the Kestrel would ignominiously end her career upon the rock-strewn coast of Devon.

“All clear for’ard?” shouted Patrol Leader Brandon. “Stand by to let go!”

Fifty hours had elapsed since the Kestrel found her way into Dartmouth Harbour. The summer storm had blown itself out. The Sea Scouts, having made up arrears of sleep, were in the best of spirits and keenly looking forward to the long run across West Bay and round the famous Bill of Portland.

It was almost a flat calm. The tide was still ebbing. The S.S. Lumberjack remained at anchor, repairs to her machinery being still in progress.

According to his rule of letting the Sea Scouts work their craft as far as possible entirely on their own responsibility, Mr. Grant was acting in the rôle of passenger, Patrol Leader Frank Brandon being for the present skipper of the Kestrel.

“Get an oar out, Heavitree,” continued the Patrol Leader. “We’ll have to sweep her round in this light breeze, and probably tow her clear of the harbour. She’ll shift easily enough when once we get way on her.”

Brandon was on the point of calling to Carline to cast off the mooring when he noticed a small motor boat approaching, apparently with the intention of crossing the Kestrel’s bows. Instead, the owner of the power-craft reversed, put her helm over, and ran alongside.

“Good morning!” he exclaimed. “I see you fellows are off. Perhaps you’d like a tow? I’m off to the East Blockstone to try a bit of fishing, so if you like I’ll take a line.”

“Thanks awfully, sir,” replied Brandon. “It’s jolly good of you.”

“Not at all,” rejoined the owner of the motor boat. “Matter of fact, I used to be a Scoutmaster. Had to give it up, unfortunately. However, I still stick to the practice of ‘One Good Turn a Day’—more if I have a chance. . . . Sorry, I didn’t see you,” he added, addressing Mr. Grant, who had just come out of the saloon. “Why! Surely your name’s Grant?”

“Quite right,” was the reply, “but somehow I can’t recall you.”

“Possibly not,” continued the other, with a laugh. “Do you remember coming alongside a tramp on Christmas Day ’17? You were in a M.L. and you got some bully beef and bread out of our old hooker. At the same time you warned us that there were two U-boats off Bolt Head, and said we’d better leg it back to Plymouth?”

Mr. Grant remembered the circumstance. It was during the war, when he was in command of a M.L.

“But I can’t recall your features,” he reiterated.

“ ’Cause I am beautifully disguised with a beard,” explained the other. “Matter of fact, we didn’t take your advice. We held on our course, and bagged a Fritz a couple of hours later. We were a ‘Q’ ship, and you didn’t spot us.”

“Heard about it later on,” said Mr. Grant. “Then your name’s Carter?”

“Just so; late Scoutmaster of the 9th Gosport Sea Scouts. Unfortunately, ‘owing to the War,’ I had to give up, much to my regret, and settle down here at Kingswear. Come aboard, and we can yarn while I’m towing your craft out of the harbour.”

Mr. Grant accepted the invitation, leaving Brandon actually in command of the Kestrel.

The tow-rope was made fast, the moorings slipped. Very gently, by skilful use of the reverse gear, Mr. Carter allowed the yacht to gather way in the wake of the 4-h.p. motor boat.

During the run down the harbour, Brandon kept all hands busily employed in casting loose mainsail and mizzen and hoisting the jib in stops ready to be broken out directly the Kestrel was cast off. Thus engaged they failed to notice the relatively slow progress or the somewhat unusual swirl under the yacht’s stern. Nor were they aware of the presence of a highly exasperated deck-hand on board the S.S. Lumberjack, who consoled himself for the preliminary failure of his plans by the thought that perhaps the motor boat would not tow the Kestrel right out to sea, but only just clear of St. Petrox. In that case there was still some hope that the yacht would pile herself up upon the tide-swept Verticals or perhaps the rugged Mewstone.

“You’ve a lump of a craft there, Grant,” remarked Mr. Carter. “She’s heavier to tow than I thought; although this packet is only a four-horse motor boat.”

“Yet she’s moving her all right,” added Mr. Grant.

“Yes, with the tide. I doubt whether we are doing three knots. Has the Kestrel’s compo. been scrubbed recently?”

“Fresh on a week ago,” declared the Scoutmaster.

“H’m,” commented Mr. Carter, “strange we aren’t doing better. A few days ago I gave a forty tonner a pluck in, and made quite easy work of it once I got her going. There’s the East Blackstone”—pointing to an isolated rock about half a mile away. “I’ll tow you inside the rock. There’s plenty of water and less tide running. You’re early yet for the up-Channel stream, but with the breeze you’ll stem the tide all right.”

At the East Blackstone the tow-rope was cast off. Mr. Grant regained the Kestrel, and the crew gave a hearty cheer for the benefit of the ex-Scoutmaster. Sail was quickly made, and under all plain canvas the Kestrel was steadied on her course for Portland Bill.

Half an hour passed. The anchored motor boat was still unaccountably near. The Kestrel, in spite of the steady favourable breeze, was not going anything like as fast as she had done in a lighter wind.

The Sea Scouts began to realise the fact and reluctantly they admitted that it was so. Even the dinghy’s painter was slack, whereas in this breeze the water ought to be foaming at her bows.

“We are going slowly, sir,” remarked Craddock.

“That’s what Mr. Carter said,” replied the Scoutmaster. “There’s no reason why we should as far as I can see, unless we’ve fouled a few lobster pots. Look over the bows and see.”

Peter went for’ard and “laid out” along the bowsprit. He could see the yacht’s forefoot showing clearly through the pale green water.

“All clear there, sir,” he reported.

“I don’t see how anything could foul her rudder,” observed Mr. Grant. “The keel band projects sufficiently to prevent that; however, just look to make sure.”

Craddock did so.

“Why!” he exclaimed. “There’s something dragging astern. I can’t make out what it is, ’cause the wake is bubbling so much. Pass me the boat-hook, Talbot.”

Lying at full length on the stern deck, Peter probed with the iron-shod boat-hook. Metal rasped on metal, and on attempting to withdraw the boat-hook the Sea Scout found that it was hitched in a line of some sort.

“Bear a hand, some of you fellows!” he called out breathlessly.

Talbot and Symington came to his assistance. All three hauled and levered at the stout ash boat-hook stave.

“Can’t get in another inch,” declared Talbot.

“Sure you’re not foul of the rudder?” asked Mr. Grant.

“No, sir, it’s astern of the rudder, whatever it is.”

“Now, Brandon, you’re in charge,” said the Scoutmaster. “Carry on and see what you can do.”

The Patrol Leader began throwing off his scanty clothing.

“Down helm!” he ordered. “Jib and staysail sheets a-weather!”

It took three attempts to get the Kestrel to come up into the wind so that she might be hove-to. As sluggish as a mule, she absolutely refused to go about until Carline and Wilson got her round by means of a sweep. Then Craddock prodded with the boat-hook, and this time found nothing more resisting than water.

“Whatever it is it has slipped off,” he announced.

“I’ll make sure, in any case,” declared Brandon.

The Patrol Leader made a clean dive, broke surface, and swam to the yacht’s stern. Then, taking a deep breath, he grasped the edge of the rudder and lowered himself towards the Kestrel’s heel.

He was under for nearly half a minute; then he reappeared, puffing and blowing like a grampus.

“There’s a large iron bucket hanging from the lower pintle,” he reported. “I tried to shake it clear, but it’s made fast by about a couple of yards of wire rope.”

“See if you can work the free end of the wire past the stern-post,” suggested Craddock. “I’ll put the helm hard over and see if that frees it.”

“There is no free end,” was the astonishing reply. “Both ends are tightly knotted round the handle of the bucket.”

All hands realised that the obstruction had not been placed there by accident or natural causes. Human agency had been deliberately at work.

“No use arguing about it, lads!” called out Brandon. “Pass me the hack-saw.”

“One minute, I’ll be with you, Frank,” said Craddock, proceeding to strip. “It’s not much use sawing at a slack wire. Get a line, Talbot. That’s right. Now, Frank, can you pass this under the handle of the bucket? You can? Good. Now, you fellows, take a strain; put plenty of beef into it and keep the rope taut.”

Craddock then went overboard and swam to give his chum a hand. They found that the strain on the rope had brought the bucket within five or six inches of the surface, and that the wire was as taut as a bar of iron.

“Wouldn’t it be easier and quicker to saw through the handle?” asked Craddock.

“Yes, but we won’t,” decided the Patrol Leader. “Why spoil what seems to be a jolly decent bucket?”

“Well, I’ve kicked the bucket,” declared Peter feelingly.

A roar of laughter greeted this apparently innocent remark. Craddock, failing to grasp the grim significance of the words, couldn’t imagine why his chums should roar because he had stubbed his toe against the submerged article.

Taking turns to use the hack-saw, the two lads set to work energetically. True they broke a couple of blades—mishaps that, owing to the erratic motion of the yacht and their unstable position, were not to be wondered at—but at length the tautened wire parted. The bucket was hauled in deck while Brandon, who believed in doing a good job thoroughly, extricated the stranded wire rope from the narrow gap between the rudder and the stern-post.

“Dirty dogs, whoever they are,” commented the Patrol Leader, after he had hauled himself clear of the water.

“Here’s a clue, anyway,” exclaimed Heavitree.

He pointed to the somewhat dented side of the bucket. On it could be traced the partly obliterated letters in black paint. . . . UM . . . R.J. . . .K.

“Lumberjack!” announced Craddock. “That’s the name of the tramp lying next to us at Dartmouth.”

“Why should any of her crew want to play a joke on us, I wonder?” enquired Carline. “Couldn’t you write to the owners and find out the names of the crew, sir? That might explain matters.”

“I am thinking seriously of doing so,” replied Mr. Grant. “There may be more in this business than we know. It’s not merely a practical joke; had we been compelled to tack out of harbour the result might easily have been disastrous. Now, Brandon! Get way on her again. She ought to slip along in a nice breeze like this; and Portland’s still a long way off.”

With that the Scoutmaster went below.

Mr. Grant went to his cabin for a very serious reason. His hand was rapidly swelling. The slight cut he had received when he rescued young Marner from the sinking schooner had resulted in an undoubted case of blood-poisoning. He, who was prone to boast of his immunity from that sort of thing, had at last fallen a victim to the dangerous malady.

For some time he had suspected it. He ought to have gone ashore at Dartmouth and seen a doctor. He would have done but for the fear that he might be ordered to lay up. In that case, the voyage of the Kestrel would have been indefinitely prolonged—long after the forthcoming Jamboree was over. Although Brandon was quite a capable fellow, he held no warrant, without which Sea Scouts are not permitted to go afloat; and it was doubtful whether a fully qualified man could be found to undertake the duties of temporary Scoutmaster.

So, rather than spoil the lads’ chance of taking part in the Chichester Harbour Jamboree, Mr. Grant risked his own.

He had had a restless night. Almost hourly he had crept softly from his bunk lest he should disturb the rest of the crew, and had held the injured hand in very warm water. But all to no seeming purpose. The middle finger was swelling badly, and, what was ominous, sharp, stabbing pains were running up his arm. Curiously, the cut at the base of the fingers appeared to be healing, while the swelling was most pronounced on the knuckle of the same digit.

As he kept his hand in the hot water, Mr. Grant’s thoughts turned to the incident of the bucket. It seemed strange indeed that already the maiden cruise of the Kestrel should be marked by three distinct—or apparently distinct—attempts to bring her to disaster. But were they distinct? Could it be that Blueskin Bone was the instigator of all three? Dick Marner’s innocent admission that his father and Carlo Bone were more than neighbours, coupled with the discovery that Marner senior’s story of the motor bicycle was a deliberate falsehood, tended to shake Mr. Grant’s previous belief in Blueskin’s innocence in the attempt at arson. Carlo Bone had gone to sea. Was it beyond the bounds of coincidence that he was one of the crew of the S.S. Lumberjack?

He went on thinking and thinking. Presently, in a hazy sort of way, he became aware that his thoughts were ridiculously disjointed and absurd. The pain in his arm seemed to be subsiding, but in its stead he felt uncomfortably hot. His head was buzzing. Grey lights danced in front of his eyes.

Then Mr. Grant did something he had never done before in his life. He fainted.

A few minutes later Peter Craddock, who was making his way to the fo’c’sle, found his Scoutmaster lying inertly across the raised coaming of his cabin doorway.

Checking his first impulse to alarm the rest of the crew, Peter lifted the unconscious form and carried it into the saloon. Here, with very little effort, the Sea Scout lifted Mr. Grant on the lee’ard settee; then, going to the companion way, asked Heavitree in a matter-of-fact voice to step below.

“Don’t say anything to the other chaps,” cautioned Peter, when his chum came below. “Mr. Grant’s fainted. I found him lying in the doorway. Get some sal volatile and a basin of cold water while I loosen his collar.”

“What made him faint?” asked Heavitree, as he carried out Craddock’s instructions.

“Don’t know,” replied Peter. “It’s not concussion.”

“His finger, perhaps?”

“Rot!” ejaculated the lad contemptuously. Then he caught sight of the badly swollen hand. “By Jove! Believe you’re right, old son. I knew he had a nasty gash, but I never knew it was as bad as this. Skylight’s open: you might open all the scuttles. The more fresh air the better.”

Presently Mr. Grant opened his eyes and looked dazedly at his youthful attendants.

“Where am I?” he asked.

“You’re all right, sir,” replied Peter reassuringly. “Heavitree and I are looking after you. Lie still a little longer.”

The Scoutmaster did so. The ghastly greyish hue on his features was giving place to the glow of returning vitality. His thoughts were again becoming coherent, yet he felt a curious sense of resentment at being ordered to remain quiet.

With returning consciousness came the agonising throb of his swollen arm. His hand was trailing over the side of the settee. It felt like lead. He was hardly able to raise it.

“Silly of me to have gone off like that,” he soliloquised. “Well, that’s put me out of the running for a bit. Hang it all—no! What am I thinking about?”

A vision of the Kestrel with her youthful crew flashed across his mind. So far all was going well. The sea was calm, the weather fine. Brandon knew the course, but would he be able to take the yacht into port?

“I’ll go on deck now,” he declared.

“No, you won’t, sir,” countered Craddock firmly. “You aren’t fit to go. Wait till we’ve done something to that hand of yours. You’ll only make it worse if you bang it against something. I’ll dress it for you. Does it hurt much?”

“A little,” admitted Mr. Grant deprecatingly, for the pain was now intense. Possibly in his fall he had jarred the already badly swollen limb.

Peter went for’ard to boil some water and make a bread poultice. While the water was being heated he went on deck to tell Brandon and the others of what had occurred.

He found Talbot at the helm. Symington and Wilson were trying with varying success to induce Molly to sit up and beg. The pup was willing enough, but the gentle motion of the yacht was too much for her. Also she had a not unfounded suspicion that the cat rescued from the Euterpe—young Marner had emphatically declined to take it with him—was secretly helping herself to the pup’s bowl of milk.

“Where’s Brandon?” asked Peter.

“Up aloft,” replied Talbot, glancing at the cross-trees.

“I’ll be down in half a shake, old son!” called out the Patrol Leader. “I’ve been trying to sight Portland Bill. It’s too far off yet.”

Craddock swept the horizon. Right astern and on the port quarter the red hills of Devon were merging into the mist of a hot summer’s day. Broad on the port beam, where the chalk cliffs make their first appearance on the south shores of England, land was no longer visible. Neither was it ahead. To starboard, Peter knew, was the broad expanse of the English Channel. For the first time in his life, Craddock was about to find himself out of sight of land. With the exception of Brandon, the other Sea Scouts were to have a similar experience: afloat with an unbroken horizon of sea and sky forming a complete circle of which the little Kestrel formed the exact centre. It was true that they had been out of sight of land during the fog, but that wasn’t the same thing. Had there been no fog they would have seen the rugged Cornish coast the whole time. Now, even in the clearest weather, they would probably be an hour or more out of sight of land until the wedge-shaped promontory of Portland showed up on the port bow.

Even as Craddock looked, a strange, muffled voice exclaimed:

“Isn’t it quite about time you fellows liberated me from this uncomfortable apartment?”