“I can’t see any sign of the Merlin,” declared Brandon, after scanning the numerous craft at anchor. Already, during the last half-hour new arrivals had taken up their berths, so that the Kestrel was by no means on the fringe of the fleet.

“That’s strange,” rejoined Peter. “I wonder where she is?”

“I’ll make enquiries,” said Mr. Grant, overhearing the conversation. “I must go aboard the Chief Sea Scout’s yacht to report our arrival and will find out whether the Merlin has arrived. Bring the dinghy alongside, please, Brandon.”

The three Wootton Sea Scouts had taken their departure and were alongside their parent craft when their arrival was greeted with acclamation by their chums.

Spic-and-span in their best jerseys, Brandon and Craddock manned the dinghy and rowed their Scoutmaster to the flagship, which was surrounded by a swarm of small boats and invaded by dozens of Scoutmasters attending a conference on the programme for the next ten days.

Having put Mr. Grant on board, Brandon and his chum “laid off,” keeping their dinghy clear of the yacht’s accommodation ladder. Then they got busy, “easing their jaw tackle,” to use a nautical expression, for the crews of the various dinghies were holding an informal jamboree on their own account and exchanging reminiscences.

There could be little doubt that the great gathering of Sea Scouts would turn out to be a huge success. Not only were the neighbouring Troops well represented; some came from Great Yarmouth, Lowestoft, Grimsby, and Hull, and even from far-off Aberdeen. From the West Coast, the Clyde was well represented, as well as Troops from the Mersey, Pembroke, Swansea, Cardiff, and Bristol. All these Troops were fortunate in possessing fairly large and seaworthy craft, many of them “drifters” with auxiliary motors.

Other Sea Scouts living in inland districts—it may sound strange to have to relate, but most efficient Troops have been formed at places on various rivers—had not been deterred from appearing at the Jamboree. Some of them—those from Nottingham, for example—had made the voyage by canal as far as Godalming, completing the journey by having their whalers placed on rail. Others, unable to make use of the inland waterways, had come the whole way by rail; while one enterprising Troop from Worcester had demonstrated how grit and ingenuity could surmount almost any obstacle.

Their craft was a 27-foot ex-naval whaler and was too long to be accommodated on an ordinary railway goods truck. Besides, they were not well off and could ill afford the expense. But they were determined to be present at the Jamboree, and they were. They had constructed a special carriage mounted on a pair of heavy motor-lorry wheels. This they attached to the Scoutmaster’s car, placing the whaler on the “cradle.” Some of the crew travelled in the boat; others by cycle, since the lumbering vehicle could not go more than eight or ten miles an hour. At night they slept in the boat, which was covered with a waterproof awning.

Others, possessing smaller boats, had trekked to the rendezvous; while in many cases Troops had arrived without craft of any description and were accommodated in tents.

Not only was Great Britain well represented. There were contingents from France, Belgium and Holland, and quite a strong Troop of hefty, flaxen-haired, fair-complexioned Sea Scouts from Denmark, most of whom spoke English and had already made the acquaintance of British Scouts at the recent Copenhagen meeting.

The organisation, too, was as perfect as human experience could devise. One of the chief considerations, an ample supply of good drinking water, was provided. There was an efficient transport service between the landing-place and the city of Chichester, from whence provisions and stores were obtained. Special precautions had been taken to provide a safe bathing-place under strict supervision; while a proper postal service had been instituted.

This much and more Brandon and Craddock learnt from their new-found chums, and apparently there was much forthcoming about which the lads were as yet metaphorically “at sea.”

In about half an hour, Mr. Grant appeared on deck and was rowed back to the Kestrel.

“The Merlin hasn’t reported, lads,” he announced. “Perhaps she’s had to put in somewhere. It’s no use expecting her this evening. There’s not enough water on the Bar until to-morrow morning. Now, Eric, my lad, I suppose the next thing to be done is to hand you over to your relations.”

“Surely, sir, there is no immediate hurry,” protested the stowaway. “If you have no objection, perhaps I might be permitted to remain for part of the impending entertainment? It occurred to me, sir, that I should like very much to become a Sea Scout.”

Mr. Grant turned to his crew.

“What shall we say, lads?” he asked.

There was a unanimous response in favour of Eric being allowed to stop on board. In spite of his old-fashioned ways, the boy had made himself well liked.

“Very well, then,” agreed the Scoutmaster. “I’ll run into Chichester to-morrow morning and see your uncle. But I’m afraid we can’t make you a Sea Scout. You’re not old enough, Eric; but there’s no reason why you shouldn’t become a Cub, and then when you are old enough you can become a Scout. Now, lads, who’s for the shore? A good sharp tramp is the thing. One of you must remain on board. Who’ll volunteer?”

Talbot said he would.

“Good man!” exclaimed Mr. Grant. “Keep a smart look-out for signals from the Chief Sea Scout’s yacht. That’s about all, I think. By the by, we’ll have to patch up the dinghy’s gunwale to-morrow. It looks a bit of a wreck.”

With the exception of the volunteer ship-keeper, all hands went ashore, leaving the dinghy on the hard. Proceeding between the avenue of tents where swarms of Sea Scouts were in various stages of “getting all ship-shape,” they gained the open country—a flat but rather pleasing bit of Sussex lying between the harbour and the open sea.

“How firm the sand is!” exclaimed Carline when the lads gained the seashore. “Look! There are fellows riding bicycles on it.”

“And isn’t the tide out?” added Wilson. “When we came in there weren’t any shoals showing.”

“That’s why we had to choose high-water,” remarked Mr. Grant. “Those shoals, although consisting of sand, are quite as dangerous as rocks. A vessel might be pounded to bits in a few minutes if she chanced to get ashore in heavy weather. There’s hardly any wind this evening—it’s almost a flat calm—but you can see the rollers breaking on the exposed edge of the shoals. This harbour happens to be the worst beaconed on the south coast, and in some respects one of the most dangerous ones. If it comes on to blow for any length of time, we might be kept here for a month.”

“How jolly that would be!” exclaimed Wilson.

“I’m afraid you’d feel rather fed-up before the month had passed,” observed the Scoutmaster. “Any place, however much it appeals to you at first, becomes positively irksome if you’re kept there against your inclinations. Well, there’s no sign of the Merlin in the offing. It’s a pity, because it looks as if she won’t be able to take part in the opening sailing race to-morrow afternoon for the Silver Cup.”

“Are we racing, sir?” asked Craddock eagerly.

“Rather.”

“Good egg, sir!” exclaimed Peter.

“Time to be on our return journey,” observed Mr. Grant, consulting his wristlet watch. “We must be on board before sunset.”

His listeners wondered why. They soon found out; for on returning to the Kestrel they noticed the Sea Scouts on the various craft mustered on deck. A bugle sounded. Everyone stood at the Alert, while a forest of burgees and ensigns fluttered to their respective decks. Then in the gathering gloom innumerable riding-lights were hoisted in position.

It was the eve of the Jamboree.

Punctually at 1.45 on the following afternoon the eventful race for the Silver Cup started. Nine yachts, each measuring thirty feet or more on the water-line, were towed into position and anchored. There they swung to the weak flood tide with canvas stowed just as if they had “brought-up” for the rest of the day.

On board the Kestrel, the third from the starboard end of the line, four very serious Sea Scouts, with Mr. Grant in command, sat breathlessly waiting for the starting gun. Although the conditions governing the race were new to them—in the old Puffin they had always had a flying start following a five-minute gun—they realised they had a fighting chance provided they did their very best and did not bungle; for not until after the races were completed would the name of the winning yacht be known. That was one of the surprises of racing under a sealed handicap.

“Fifty seconds!” announced Mr. Grant calmly. “Stand by! Fifty-five . . . fifty-six . . . fifty-seven . . . fifty-eight . . . fifty-nine. . . .”

“Bang!”

Simultaneously with the flash of the starting gun the hitherto practically motionless crews of the competing craft were figuratively galvanised into activity. In as short a time as possible, the bare poles would be hidden by the towering canvas, anchors would be weighed, and the vessels would leap forward on the determined contest.

On board the Kestrel, although her crew had had plenty of practice in getting under way, they had not had to take into consideration the fact that at a few yards’ distance on either side other crews were doing the same thing. Besides, they were short-handed, five being the maximum number allowed. The rest of the Kestrel’s complement were ashore, where, in common with several hundred Sea Scouts and other spectators, they were yelling themselves hoarse with excitement.

Brandon and Craddock, casting off the tyers, hauled away at main and peak halliards. Heavitree and Carline ran for’ard to attach the foresail to the forestay by means of the hanks, and to run the jib out on the bowsprit ready to hoist. By the time the mainsail was set Heavitree, who was chosen for this particular work by reason of his strength, broke out the anchor and got it inboard.

Simultaneously with the racing of the anchor, Mr. Grant put the helm hard-a-starboard, Brandon tended the mainsheet, while the two hands for’ard set both jib and staysail.

As soon as the Kestrel forged ahead, Peter and the Patrol Leader set and trimmed the mizzen. This done, all hands went quietly to their racing station and awaited orders.

Now for the first time since the starting gun Peter was able to take notice of what the other competing yachts were doing. Smart though the Kestrel’s crew had been in getting under way, there were two craft which had executed the manœuvre in quicker time and already had established a useful lead. One was a centre-board cutter from the Humber, a wholesome looking craft; the other, also a cutter, belonging to a Plymouth Troop. Slightly to lee’ard, and with her hands still engaged in sheeting home their canvas, was a Poole ex-fishing boat rather noted for her speed and weatherly qualities. A few yards astern was a deep-draughted Bristol pilot cutter. Apparently she had trouble with her peak-halliard blocks, and a couple of Sea Scouts were swarming aloft to set things right.

All these craft were close-hauled on the starboard tack. The rest of the competitors, including two who had collided at the start, were heading towards the Bosham side of the channel.

So far so well. Peter had never known the Kestrel to move so fast in such a light wind. For one thing, she was no longer hampered by her dinghy. That impediment was for the present unnecessary and had been left ashore.

But clean-heeled though the Kestrel was, there were others who were faster. Although Mr. Grant, by keeping her “full,” got the very best out of the yacht, she could neither point so high nor travel as fast as two of the cutters.

On the fore-deck of the Kestrel, Heavitree lay motionless, keeping well down to minimise wind-resistance. The rest of the crew stationed aft were as silent and immobile as statues. They realised that the race was not a game. It was something that required every effort of mind and body on the part of each member of the crew. Even to move about unnecessarily might mean the loss of the race, for even in a craft of the size of the Kestrel it would be adversely sensitive to the alteration of “trim” should any of the crew begin “jumping about.”

Now the leading yacht on the starboard tack was nearing the edge of the deep-water channel. She drew more than the Kestrel, and the problem that confronted Mr. Grant was whether to put the helm down at once, or, taking advantage of the Kestrel’s smaller draught, carry on and pass astern and consequently to wind’ard of his antagonist. He had to make up his mind quickly. He realised, too, that against the flood tide he might find slack water, or even a counter-eddy close to the hidden mud-flat.

He chose the latter alternative.

“Stand by to go about!” he ordered; then “Lee-o!”

Quickly yet deliberately Brandon let the head-sheets fly. Round came the Kestrel slowly yet surely, shooting ahead in the slack water and actually overlapping the leading cutter. But the advantage was only temporary, although it counted in the long run. Unable to point as high as his rival, the Kestrel’s speed diminished. The only possible course was to up-helm slightly and to romp under the Humber yacht’s lee.

Meanwhile the Plymouth vessel had gone about and was making short but useful tacks; while the Bristol yacht, holding on too long, was aground with her crew feverishly working in an attempt to get her off.

Half-way across the Channel, the Kestrel, now on the port tack, met the competing craft, which had made for the northern side of the fairway. By the “rules of the road” she had to give way. Now came the test of the helmsman’s skill and sound judgment. The slightest error might result in disaster, for which the Kestrel would be blamed. Even the faintest contact between her and one of the yachts on the starboard tack would disqualify her. In addition there were two boats abeam of her and two more astern. No need to worry about the last two. They had to avoid those ahead as well as those converging on the opposite tack.

The Kestrel passed the first of the starboard-tack boats at less than a couple of yards to lee’ard. For a brief instant, as the lowering canvas of the latter blanketed the wind, the Kestrel recovered from her heel; her sails shivered, the mainsheet sagged. Then at the next moment she staggered as she felt the full force of the breeze, and, luffing, shot magnificently across the bows of the next competitor.

It was exhilarating work. Even in that land-locked harbour, the dead beat to wind’ard with a weather-going tide sent the spindrift flying over the bows. Yet the disconcerting fact was now apparent. The Kestrel, owing to her rig and generous amount of deadwood fore and aft, was hopelessly out of it against the performance of most of her competitors in the thrash to wind’ard. She could only hold on gamely. Even the Bristol boat was afloat once more and was tearing along in grand style. Astern a Dover yacht was in difficulties with a torn jib; while a Newhaven yawl and a Grimsby cutter, both under-canvassed, were indulging in a ding-dong race on their own account.

At twenty minutes from the start the two leading competitors were rounding the mark buoy. The Kestrel was still a good two hundred yards from it. Four other boats, bunched together, were bearing down on the port tack for the turning-point.

As luck would have it the second boat’s bowsprit was almost level with the leader’s counter as they prepared to go about at the mark buoy. This is what is termed “establishing an overlap,” and the second craft has the right to hail the other to give her more room. If, however, there is no overlap the leading craft can carry on, leaving the other to get out of her way and pass outside her.

At this critical moment a collision occurred. The leading yacht, with her mainsail ripped, fell away, leaving the second with her bowsprit smashed off close to the stem-head and her jib trailing in the water.

“Rough luck!” commented the sportsman-like Craddock. “They’re out of it.”

But Peter was wrong. The yacht with the damaged bowsprit was automatically disqualified; but the other, in spite of the sorry condition of her mainsail, bore away and continued to race.

Presently it was the Kestrel’s turn to round the mark buoy. She had it all to herself, for the bunch of four were already on the homeward run, while the remaining two competitors were well astern.

“Stand by!” cautioned Mr. Grant. “Ready with the spinnaker!”

Moving as softly as cats, Carline and Heavitree prepared the halliards and out-haul of the spinnaker. Round swept the Kestrel, making the mark buoy curtsey in her wash. Over flew the boom in a deliberate gybe.

“Up spinnaker!” ordered the Scoutmaster.

In double quick time the huge but light triangular sail was set and sheeted home. Now the Kestrel was at her best. Running was her strong point. The foam frothed at her cut-water and trailed astern in an ever-diverging double wake. In five minutes she had overtaken the partly crippled Plymouth cutter, the crew of which, far from being dismayed, had also set spinnaker. She was making a gallant fight against long odds, and the Kestrel’s crew broke a prolonged silence by giving the West Country Sea Scouts a rousing cheer.

A stern chase is proverbially a long one, but slowly yet surely the Kestrel was decreasing the distance between the now straggling procession of leading boats. The task entailed ceaseless vigilance on the part of the Scoutmaster. An accidental gybe at this state of the proceedings would be disastrous. In all probability the Kestrel’s mainmast would be carried away, but in any case the mainsail would mask the spinnaker and deprive it of its pulling power.

At the last bend, which was so gentle that there was no necessity to gybe and reset the spinnaker, the Kestrel was fourth. A Poole boat, staggering under a press of bellying sail, was leading. Following her came the centre-keeled Humber cutter, the crew of which had set a large square sail in addition to their working canvas. Next the Bristol boat, which, having made good following her temporary grounding, had failed to maintain her advantage while running.

Less than a quarter of a mile ahead could be seen the anchored boat that marked one end of the finishing line. The distance was too short to enable the Kestrel to overhaul the remaining three ahead. True, she drew level with the Bristol cutter; but, impeded by the far-flung bow wave of the latter, she was unable to continue her advantage. Yet the pace was terrific. Peter found himself wondering what would happen when the competing yacht crossed the line. There seemed no room to turn owing to the crowd of anchored yachts and boats beyond.

“Stand by!” cautioned Mr. Grant crisply.

Bang! went the gun for the foremost yacht. Five seconds later another report greeted the arrival of the second. Then, almost simultaneously, the gun fired twice.

“Down spinnaker!”

No need for cautious movements now. Down came the clouds of light canvas. The spinnaker boom was topped up in double quick time. Over went the helm. Brandon and Craddock hauled away on the mainsheet. Heeling, the Kestrel turned into the wind, shot clear of the course, and dropped anchor almost in her former berth.

“It’s been a thundering good race,” declared Mr. Grant, moistening his parched lips; for now that the ordeal was over his tongue felt unpleasantly dry. “Signal to Talbot and the others and tell them to come aboard. We’ll get tea. Hello! There’s the Merlin. When did she arrive, I wonder?”

The Falmouth Sea Scouts had brought up about a hundred yards from the Kestrel, and several other craft lay at anchor between them. Without a dinghy, Mr. Grant could not pay her a visit, although all on board the Kestrel were naturally curious to know what had happened to her.

Presently Symington, Talbot and Wilson, and Eric Little, together with the pup, came alongside.

“I say, sir!” exclaimed Talbot eagerly. “Can we enter for the ex-service boats’ rowing match? We’ve been talking to some Portsmouth Sea Scouts. They say they’ll lend us a gig, if we like to have a shot.”

“Certainly,” replied Mr. Grant, although he knew that his lads, unaccustomed to pulling a heavy four-oared boat and a strange one at that, stood a poor chance of securing a win. “Row ashore and accept the offer, and then hurry back for tea. What time does the race start? Six? Good!”

Talbot had been gone only a few minutes when Craddock reported that the flagship was making a general signal.

“They’re about to announce the result of the race,” he added. “I’ve hoisted our answering pennant, sir.”

Already a number of red and white pennants hoisted “at the dip”—that is, half-way up—indicated that the various craft concerned were ready to receive the impending signal.

“Code flag over M, sir,” reported Craddock. “They going to give the winning numbers.”

The first number—represented by the code letter G—indicated that No. 7 was the winner of the cup. That showed that the coveted trophy had been carried off by the Poole Sea Scouts, who had not only actually come in first, but were first also on handicap.

When the second number went up, Craddock gave a whoop of delight, while the rest of the crew almost fell over themselves with excitement.

The Kestrel had won the second prize, but only by the narrow margin of five seconds.

The Kestrel’s crew had only just finished their much-appreciated tea when the Merlin’s dinghy came alongside.

“Hello, Pendennis!” exclaimed Mr. Grant, going on deck to receive his visitor. “What happened to you?”

“A slice of bad luck,” replied the Cornishman. “Our anchor tripped during the night when we lay off Newtown. When we turned out we found ourselves bumping on Warden Ledge. We must have drifted nearly seven miles without knowing it. Then, in trying to get off, we strained one of our propeller blades and had to put into Yarmouth to get it straightened. After that we came on here.”

“And when did you arrive?”

“Early this morning,” replied Mr. Pendennis. “In fact, so early that you lazy fellows were fast asleep. We felt tempted to give you a hail. Heartiest congratulations, Grant, in getting second in that race.”

“Thanks. Sorry you didn’t compete.”

The Cornishman smiled.

“My lads were a bit fagged out,” he replied. “We’ve stood some long tricks this trip. ’Sides, they’re keen on the ex-Service boats’ pulling race and are conserving their strength for that event.”

“We’re entering, too, sir,” announced Talbot.

“The more the merrier,” rejoined Mr. Pendennis.

While the two Scoutmasters were chatting upon various subjects relating to the Jamboree the rest of the Kestrel’s crew went ashore to complete their preparations.

The Portsmouth Sea Scouts were as good as their word, for quite a serviceable gig was hauled up on the hard for the Kestrel lads’ use. More than a dozen other ex-Service boats were also out of the water, their respective crews busily engaged in making ready for the fray or, rather, contest.

“What’s that stuff you’re putting on?” enquired Craddock of a lad who hailed from Pembroke.

“Black lead, look you,” replied the young Welshman. “Want some? We have plenty, look you.”

Seeing that several of the competing boats were being treated in a similar fashion, Peter accepted the generous offer and soon the bottom of the borrowed gig was shining in a coat of black lead thinned down with stale beer—a preparation which, although filthy to handle, is in high favour amongst rowers of racing craft.

As soon as the Kestrel’s crew had applied the “dope,” the gig was uprighted and a thorough examination made of her oars and stretchers. Craddock, as coxswain of the boat, meant to leave little to chance, although he was quite aware of the disadvantage of racing in a strange craft without even the opportunity of having a preliminary practice. But, he reflected sagely, there were other crews similarly handicapped.

Just before six o’clock fourteen boats faced the starter. By this time the ebb-tide was running strongly against a steady sou’westerly breeze, with the result that farther down the main channel there was quite a sea running.

“Back there, No. 5!” shouted the somewhat harassed starter through a megaphone.

No. 5’s crew dropped their oars and obediently “toed the line.” They were hefty, bronzed-featured lads from Margate. It was their first race, and in consequence they were a bit excited.

“Tough lot, aren’t they?” remarked Heavitree, stroke of the Kestrel’s gig, as he moistened the loom of his oar with salt water.

“Eyes on the boat,” cautioned Peter. “Stand by!”

The starting gun crashed. Fifty-six backs bent to the first stroke; fifty-six oars dipped almost as one, and the fourteen competing boats leapt forward, the coxswains shouting encouragement to their men.

For the first hundred yards the line retained its comparative straightness, but already some of the rowers were splashing unnecessarily, and they lost their “first wind,” and hadn’t begun to find their second.

Then five of the boats shot ahead, amongst them the Kestrel’s borrowed gig. Her crew were working with a will and getting every ounce of power out of their backs and legs. They had a style about them, and Peter, as he watched their long, steady, and regular strokes, felt proud of his chums.

Glancing out of the corner of his eye, Craddock noticed that the Nottingham Sea Scouts’ boat was level on her starboard beam. Her crew, admirably trained, were rowing with the regularity of clockwork. Instinctively, Peter felt that here was a rival to be treated with respect.

To port, No. 7—the Pembroke crowd—was forging ahead. The crew were rowing a quicker stroke, but would they last? On the extreme left, No. 14, the Whitby boat, had already established a useful lead. Although losing the advantage of the ebb-tide she was in smoother water close to the bank, but at the first bend that advantage would be lost.

Yet, Peter knew, there was little to be judged by position at this stage. It was the stayer, not the spurter, who seemed most likely to lead the procession over the finishing line.

He looked at his crew. They were bearing up bravely. Talbot looked a little flustered, but was still rowing strongly. None of them had reached the gasping stage yet, although rivulets of perspiration trickled unhindered down their faces.

At the first bend the competitors met the full force of the wind ’gainst tide. The lean bows of the boat threw apart showers of spray, as the knife-like stem cleft the curling waves.

It was here that the Nottingham lads found themselves handicapped. Used to pulling in a river, they had never had the opportunity of rowing in a fairly high seaway. Their style, admirable in smooth water, was at a decided disadvantage in this “popple.” More than once “bow” missed his stroke, his blade encountering nothing more resistant than air as the boat rose on the crest of a short, steep wave.

“We’re overhauling her all right,” thought Peter.

Five lengths ahead the Portsmouth Sea Scouts were leading. Pulling splendidly, they were steadily increasing their lead, when misfortune descended upon them. “Stroke’s” oar broke just above the blade. The lad, falling backwards, temporarily put No. 3 out of action. By the time the latter had recovered and resumed his oar, the boat had dropped to the seventh place. Nevertheless under extremely adverse conditions the lads continued their gallant struggle, the oarless “stroke” sitting up and moving with the rest to preserve the rhythm of the swing.

The mark buoy at last!

“Back, port! Pull, starboard!” ordered Peter. Round swung the gig, rolling as she swung broadside to the weather-going tide.

“Together!”

Now came the strenuous part of the whole race—the last lap. The Kestrels were visibly tiring. Even Heavitree’s Adam’s apple was working convulsively, while the veins in his bared arms stood out like whipcord. Talbot, looking utterly blown, was pulling almost mechanically, gasping through his wide open mouth in his efforts to fill his painfully stifled lungs.

There was but one boat ahead. That was the Pembroke one. The Welshmen were in a far worse plight than Craddock’s crew. They had let themselves go at the start, and were reaping the consequences; yet they, too, were “sticking it” with the fervid tenacity of their race.

For the present Peter dare not call upon his loyal crew for an extra spurt. They were gaining all the time, yet without the final and spectacular burst they would not be able to overlap their rivals. And, of course, the Welshmen would almost certainly respond.

Three hundred yards from home the Kestrel’s gig’s bows were level with the Pembroke boat’s stern. The coxswain of the latter could be heard calling to his men for the final effort. It was now Peter’s chance, provided his jaded crew could respond to it.

“Whack her up, lads!” he shouted. “Last lap!”

Both boats were now in calmer waters. Nobly the Kestrels responded to their coxswain’s call. Blinded with perspiration, with bursting lungs and violently throbbing hearts, aching muscles and blistered palms, they were unconscious of everything but the desire to make that extra spurt.

Now they were dead level with the Welshmen.

“Keep it up, lads!” yelled Peter.

That was as much as they could do. To increase the number of strokes was out of the question. They were perilously close to the breaking-point. Could they stay the course?

The Kestrel’s gig drew ahead. The Pembroke coxswain in a shrill falsetto called upon his men for a final effort. They tried. There was a sharp crack. One of their stretchers had broken.

“Hard lines on them,” thought Peter. “But we were winning, anyway.”

Then for the first time on the homeward run Craddock glanced over his shoulder. He had a shock. The nearest of the remaining competitors was quite five lengths astern. Nothing short of a disaster to the Kestrel’s gig would give any of the boats astern a chance to overtake her now, for the finishing line was less than eighty yards ahead.

But—and that it was that gave Peter a most disconcerting jar—close to the edge of the channel and out of the full force of the adverse tide was the Nottingham boat.

By dint of sheer doggedness she had fought her way through the choppy sea. Then, edging over towards the mud-flats, she found herself under conditions very similar to that of her native Trent. The Nottingham Sea Scouts, admirably trained and in the pink of condition, were not slow to take advantage of the change of fortune. They were now almost level with Craddock’s crew, although separated by about fifty yards of water.

“Pull, lads, pull!” shouted Peter. “For all you’re worth!”

The spirit was willing, but exhausted flesh was unable to respond to the dictates of the brain. Gallantly the crew bent their aching backs, tugging ferociously at the tough ash oars. Then Talbot missed a stroke, the badly trimmed blade slithering ineffectually on the surface.

Before the lad could recover his stroke the gun went.

“Way ’nough!” gulped Peter, and the thoroughly exhausted rowers collapsed, sobbing in their efforts to recharge their bursting lungs.

Completely bewildered, Peter looked in the direction of the Nottingham boat. She was over the line, her crew paddling easily towards the flagship. The Kestrel’s gig was also across the line—but there had been only one gun. What did it mean?

Everyone in the anchored yachts seemed to be cheering. So were the crowd on the beach. Then another competing boat crossed the line with her crew on the verge of utter exhaustion. They received a gun.

Still puzzled, Craddock was dimly aware of the Kestrel’s dinghy coming alongside and of Mr. Grant leaning over the gunwale and patting him on the back.

“Well rowed!” exclaimed the Scoutmaster. “Well rowed! Dead heat with the Avalon. Let’s have your painter; we’ll tow you to the beach. Yes, by Jove! you’ve tied with that crack Nottingham crew, and honestly I never expected you to have a look-in. Well done!”

For three consecutive days the weather remained bright and with very little wind. It was ideal conditions for almost every event except sailing. The Sea Scouts held greasy pole competitions, swimming races, diving contests, and a great water tournament.

The latter event was great fun and turned out to be a huge success. There were forty competitors a side, most of them in fancy dress. Each member of the opposing teams was “mounted” on a barrel to which was affixed a rough representation of a horse’s head, the cask being ballasted sufficiently to enable the rider to keep his balance if he used the utmost caution. The offensive weapons consisted of poles ten feet in length terminating in a well-padded ball of rags or oakum, and also of short sticks to which were attached blown-up bladders.

Every evening almost every member of the numerous crews went ashore for a camp-fire sing-song, while at various times there were competitions in making bends and splices and other nautical accomplishments.

At the close of the fourth day’s sing-song and after most of the audience had dispersed, Mr. Grant sent Craddock to the wireless tent with a message for the Scoutmaster in charge.

Arriving at the tent, which was merely for the purpose of keeping the four-valve receiving set in the dry—for when a broadcast concert was on, the sides of the tent were rolled up and the loud speaker brought into the open—Peter found that the Scoutmaster he sought had gone across to the electrician’s quarter in order to arrange about recharging some batteries.

“He won’t be long,” added his informant, a King’s Scout belonging to a Berwick Troop. “Try one of these phones while you’re waiting and see what you can pick up. It will only be Morse on the lower wave-lengths, I fancy. Can you read Morse?”

“Rather,” replied Peter.

“Guess you won’t make head or tail of this lot unless you’ve been trained to it,” continued the Berwick lad. “We had a skilled postal telegraphist in last night, and he was whacked. But you can try.”

Craddock put on the head-phones, listened for about twenty seconds, and then turned to his companion.

“There’s an S.O.S.,” he declared.

“Nonsense!” retorted the other incredulously. “It will be Niton calling CQ. You’re not the first to imagine an S.O.S.”

Nevertheless the Berwick Sea Scout took up another pair of phones. He listened and his smile of incredulity vanished. Snatching up a pencil, he wrote rapidly.

Peter, too, tried to follow the bewildering succession of perplexing sounds and could not make head or tail of it. He had to wait until his companion had taken down the message and a reply to it.

The S.O.S. was to the effect that the S.S. Lumberjack was badly grounded in a thick fog, position approximately six miles north-west of Selsea Bill, and that she was rapidly breaking up in the heavy ground swell.

The reply was: “Hayling Island and Bembridge lifeboats proceeding to your assistance. Have requested Government tugs to be sent from Portsmouth.”

The Lumberjack then wirelessed: “Must take to boats.” Followed by a warning from the shore station: “Do not attempt to land in your boats.”

Then came the distressed vessel’s final and uncompleted appeal: “Send help quickly. We are——”

Craddock did not wait for the Scoutmaster’s return. In fact, he rather surprised the Berwick lad by his abrupt and hasty departure. He took to his heels and ran as fast as he could to Mr. Grant and told him the news.

“The Lumberjack is the tramp we were lying close to at Dartmouth,” he added.

“Yes,” replied Mr. Grant. “And judging by her reported position she’s aground not far from the mouth of this harbour. I don’t suppose we’ll be of much use, but we’ll see what’s to be done. Get the patrol together, Brandon. See that we’ve first aid outfits, and bring a coil of two-inch rope along. Warn any Scoutmasters you pass on your way to the store, but I think most of them will have heard of it already.”

It was now nearly half-past ten. The heavy sea fog had held all the evening and was now spreading inland, promising to get thicker before very long. Overhead the stars were rapidly disappearing from view. The air was perfectly still, yet even at that distance the muffled roar of the surf on Chichester Bar and the adjoining Pole Sand could be distinctly heard.

In remarkably quick time the Kestrel’s crew assembled. Most of them had electric torches. Heavitree had brought a lifebelt, while Brandon had got hold of not only a long length of two-inch rope, but also a useful coil of heaving line.

“Couldn’t we run the dinghy over on a trek-cart, sir?” asked Talbot.

Mr. Grant shook his head.

“It would be useless,” he decided. “You’ve seen the breakers on that flat, sandy shore. No boat could possibly be launched in that turmoil. All ready?”

The crew set out. They were not alone, for already various Scoutmasters had called out their Troops in order to patrol the beach in case any of the Lumberjack’s people were cast ashore.

By this time the fog over the land had thickened considerably. It was hardly possible to see the outlines of the hedges on either side of the narrow lanes, and in the darkness the only way to find the right road was for a Sea Scout to swarm up the various sign-posts and flash his torch upon the painted directions. Unfortunately all the would-be rescuers took the same route, with the result that when they arrived on the beach they were all bunched together, instead of being spread out over a wide front.

They could see-nothing; hear nothing but the thunder of the breakers in the still air. Mr. Grant realised the difficulty. Each Scoutmaster had control over his own Troop, but there was no one to exercise authority over the whole.

“Isn’t there any District Commissioner here?” he enquired of another Scoutmaster. “If so, he ought to take charge. We’re doing little good huddled together. Survivors might be thrown ashore anywhere between the mouth of the harbour and Selsea Bill.”

“That’s a fact,” agreed the other Scoutmaster. “Hello! Here’s a car. Perhaps——”

The rays of the headlights seemed to stop short within a few yards of the car, which had stopped almost at the extreme edge of the hard ground. Another four or five feet and the wheels would have sunk in the soft sand above high-water mark.

Mr. Grant went to the side of the car. He saw with feelings of satisfaction that one of the occupants wore the distinctive rig of a District Commissioner.

“Glad you’ve come, sir,” he began. “We want someone to straighten things out.”

He explained. The Commissioner, a retired Army officer, grasped the situation at once. His powerful voice pierced the fog. In five minutes, discipline had remedied the defect of individual initiative, and from a fixed point patrols were extending right and left with an interval of ten paces between each Sea Scout. Even at that short distance each watcher was invisible to his nearest neighbour, but they were within easy hailing distance, so that communication throughout the whole line—there were about 250 Sea Scouts spread over a front of nearly one and a half miles—could be maintained without difficulty.

The crew of the Kestrel found themselves in patrol formation stepping out briskly over the board-hard sand just above low-water mark. There were Troops ahead of them and behind them. At every half-minute came crisp orders from the Scoutmasters of the rearmost parties; until, glancing over his shoulder, Mr. Grant discovered that the patrol immediately behind the Kestrel’s crew had extended and halted.

It was now the turn of the Aberstour Sea Scouts. Talbot halted and faced seawards; the rest continued their march, Symington halting at the tenth pace and so on, until the Patrol Leader found himself on the right of his section of the line.

It was an awesome business standing still and peering through the fog at the misty white surf as it broke and receded almost within a couple of yards of the watchers. All of them were already drenched with the flying spray, and although the salt water felt quite warm at first, a succession of shower baths soon became not only monotonous but extremely unpleasant. What was happening out to sea they knew not. They could only conjure up mental pictures of the struggle for life on the part of the shipwrecked crew as their crazy, ill-conditioned craft was being rapidly battered into scrap-iron somewhere within a mile of one section of that far-flung line of would-be lifesavers.

Presently Brandon hailed his chum.

“Have you got Molly?” he enquired.

“Yes,” replied Peter, who was holding the pup in his arms. “She’s with me, but she’s got the wind up frightfully.”

“We ought to have left her on board,” continued the Patrol Leader.

“There wasn’t time,” rejoined Craddock.

“ ’Sides, she’d be far more terrified if she’d been left by herself.”

Another ten minutes passed. Then the Scoutmaster of the Troop on the Kestrel’s right came up to Mr. Grant.

“There’s a boat come ashore,” he reported. “She was full of water and capsized as she was thrown on the beach. The Weymouth Troop have found eight of the crew. Two of them are dead. There are a lot more to be accounted for. Pass the information along, please.”

Presently from the left came the order, “Increase interval by four paces.”

This was to fill up the gap left by the Weymouth Sea Scouts, who, being engaged in the task of restoring to life the apparently drowned members of the Lumberjack’s crew, had left their section of the shore unwatched. Already they were carrying some of the survivors away in hastily constructed stretchers to the shelter of an isolated farm-house.

“Well, that looks like business, lads,” commented Mr. Grant, as he passed behind the line. “There are others still to come ashore. Keep a smart look-out.”

It was easier said than done, so thick was the fog, although the stars were beginning to show overhead through the low-lying bank of salt-laden vapour.

Suddenly, Molly began to bark furiously and struggled so fiercely that Peter placed him on the sand. Instantly she darted towards the water’s edge, and although she retreated when the next breaker swept forward, she followed up the receding wave and continued to bark.

Simultaneously Brandon and Craddock rushed forward. They were within ten feet of each other before they discovered each other’s presence.

“What is it?” asked the Patrol Leader.

“Molly’s spotted something,” replied Peter. “Look! It’s a life-buoy.”

The next wave brought the buoy almost to Craddock’s feet, although he had to go knee-deep into the retiring “undertow” before he could secure it.

The canvas of the life-buoy was ripped in several places, and most of the rope that ought to be attached to it was missing; but painted on it in black letters was the name “S.S. Lumberjack.”

Hurling the life-buoy out of the way of the breaking waves, Brandon was about to resume his post when Craddock shouted to him.