Contents

CHAPTER I

Afloat Once More

"To-morrow the tide serves," declared Patrol Leader Peter Stratton, stepping back a few paces in order to admire the joint handiwork of the 1st Milford Sea Scouts. "We'll launch her while the compo's wet. That's the right thing, I believe."

It was a blazing morning late in July. The Sea Scouts, with the best part of seven weeks' holiday in front of them, were engaged in giving their craft—the 54-foot motor-boat Olivette—a belated refit before undertaking what Alan Hepworth described as "the stunt of stunts".

The Olivette rested in her cradle with the stern a good five yards from high-water mark on the gently shelving patch of gravel that constitutes the Keyhaven repairing-slip. For just over a week all hands—namely, Patrol Leader Peter Stratton, Scouts Dick Roche, Eric Flemming, Will Woodleigh, Reggie Warkworth, Alan Hepburn, and Tenderfoot Phil Rayburn—had been hard at work from early morn till dewy eve making the staunch craft look presentable and, what was more, seaworthy, for the undertaking they had in view.

The Sea Scouts were doing the task of refitting entirely by themselves. Mr. Armitage, their Scoutmaster, was away in Town on business, and would not be back until the following Thursday, and it was "up to" the lads to have the Olivette afloat "all shipshape and Bristol fashion" on his return.

Roche, Flemming, and Woodleigh had taken down the powerful 50-60 horse-power Kelvin engine, decarbonized the four cylinders, fitted new piston rings, ground in the valves, and adjusted the tappets. At the end of each day's work they were as black as tinkers and as jolly as sand-boys.

Hepburn and Rayburn had been told off to clean down and revarnish the after-cabin and paint out the fo'c'sle; Stratton and Warkworth, with the aid of caustic soda and scrapers, had removed all the old paint from the Olivette's sides, and were on the last stages of applying the final coat of "battleship grey" paint. Incidentally they had liberally besprinkled themselves and their overalls with paint and varnish, while, owing to an incautious use of caustic soda, that powerful chemical had indelibly stained their nails a dark brown, which were not only disfigured but positively painful.

But for the sake of the ship—their very own ship—such discomforts counted for little: the Olivette's refit was rapidly approaching completion, and for the present nothing else mattered.

In their task of getting the boat ready for sea the Scouts received no human aid, but they were "assisted" by a big curly-haired dog, with a white patch on his chest, who answered to the name of Bruin.

Twelve months before, Bruin, then a mere pup, had been rescued by the Sea Scouts of the Olivette when he was in dire peril on the Buxey Sands in the Thames estuary. He was now a powerful, wonderfully good-tempered beast, standing nearly thirty inches high, and combining the sagacity of a full-grown dog with the high spirits of a puppy. Nominally Peter's dog, Bruin was the recognized mascot of the Olivette's crew. He had adopted them all. He obeyed them and no one else. He was friendly with most human beings with whom he came in contact, but he took it for granted that his destiny was indissolubly associated with the blue-jerseyed, white-capped lads who formed the 1st Milford Sea Scouts.

During the present operations Bruin's activities were mainly concerned with trotting around with paint-brushes and tools. Somewhere in the back of his doggie brain he had the idea that these articles were a hindrance to his youthful masters, since they were so busy working with them that they couldn't go to sea. Consequently, Bruin did his best to help things on by running away with paintbrushes and tools. Whenever anything was missing, Bruin was dubbed the culprit. In nine cases out of ten the Sea Scouts were right, and by dint of a little tracking they discovered the dog's cache—a hole in a cabbage-patch in the coastguards' garden.

"She looks A1," exclaimed Dick Roche, backing-up the Patrol Leader's unspoken satisfaction. "You've put that top coat on splendidly, Peter."

"Not so dusty," admitted the Patrol Leader modestly. "The line's a bit wonky under the starboard quarter. That was when Bruin started jazzing on my back; but the compo will square that off all right. How are you getting on?"

"Finished," declared the motor expert. "The magneto's timed just a trifle in advance. I fancy she'll do better like that."

"If she does as well as she did before, I won't complain," rejoined Peter. "Yes, I've made a good job of those top-sides—a thundering good job. Now, lads, we'll leave her at that. The paint will be set hard by to-morrow, if it doesn't rain."

"I don't fancy it will," said Hepburn. "The glass is high and steady. What's the next job, Peter?"

"Final coat of varnish on the dinghy," announced the Patrol Leader. "Then, the last thing to-night, we'll grease the ways. That will be enough for one day's work, I fancy."

"We'll miss you when you go, Peter, old thing," remarked Flemming.

"Yes, I'm sorry I'm leaving you all," replied Stratton. "But a fellow can't hang on here for ever. I mean to have a jolly time before I go, though."

At the end of August, Peter Stratton was entering the Merchant Service as a cadet. It was mainly owing to his previous training as a sea scout that the directors of one of the biggest steamship lines had accepted Peter.

With the prospect of losing their present Patrol Leader the Sea Scouts had decided to have a glorious cruise before he severed his connection with the Olivette. It was an elaborate scheme. They were to "go foreign", taking the Olivette across Channel to Havre and then up the Seine to Rouen, and possibly Paris.

Scoutmaster Armitage had readily fallen in with the idea. Not only would the execution of it give his lads another opportunity of seamanship in the Channel, it would afford them a chance of seeing a country not their own—a country that, during the last few years, has been closely united in aims and sympathies with her former enemy.

The Sea Scouts had received several letters from their Scoutmaster during his stay in town. In them he reported progress: how that he had already obtained the necessary charts, and had applied for passports and other forms that had to be produced before the crew of the Olivette landed on French soil.

Already Hepburn, the Troop photographer, had been busy on this account, taking individual photographs of each member of the Olivette's crew. True to their traditions, the Sea Scouts kept smiling, and in the resultant prints the smiles appeared to be grossly exaggerated. The "rogues' gallery", as Stratton termed it, had been duly sent off to Mr. Armitage, to adorn the necessary passports.

The Olivette being ready for launching, the Sea Scouts turned their attention to the dinghy, until the little tender glistened with varnish and the boat-house was festooned with her various fittings all wet with "best copal ".

"Bruin!" exclaimed Stratton, addressing the high-spirited animal. "Get outside. You're shaking your hairs all over the varnish. And please don't look so excited. You aren't coming this trip."

"What?" exclaimed Warkworth in dismay. "Bruin not coming? Why not, Peter? It wouldn't be the Olivette without Bruin."

"It'll have to be," retorted the Patrol Leader. "It's rough luck on Bruin, I admit; but if we took him to France he'd have to undergo six months' quarantine when we returned. It isn't worth it, old son, is it?"

The "old son" looked at his master and solemnly winked one eye.

"I mean it, Bruin," continued Stratton. Bruin shut one eye again, and went outside to think things over.

Early next morning the Sea Scouts reassembled at Keyhaven. First high-water—for there are double tides on this part of the coast—was at 10.15, but all preparations had to be completed well before that time.

As the lads approached the Olivette the Patrol Leader came to a sudden stop. He wasn't smiling this time. In fact his jaw dropped appreciably. The boat's side looked as if it had developed a marine form of scarlet fever. It was simply peeling all over. The smooth coat of grey, over the application of which Stratton had spent so much time and labour, was little better than an expanse of blistering and flaking paint.

"What's happened, Peter?" asked Hepburn. "Has someone been fooling about in the night?"

"Goodness knows," replied the Patrol Leader. "Frost might account for it but we don't get frosts in July. The paint hasn't taken. We'll have to scrape it all off. And Mr. Armitage is due back to-morrow."

While the Sea Scouts were still contemplating the unaccountable misfortune, an old man approached. They knew him very well. His name was Boldrigg, and he was a pensioned naval seaman, who, having served as a coastguard, had settled down at Keyhaven. He was a widower, and had lost both his sons in the War—one a seaman gunner, in the Jutland Battle, and the other a corporal in a line regiment, "somewhere in France".

"Ahoy, there!" shouted the old man. "Tied up in knots about something I'll warrant. What's adrift?"

Peter pointed to the oyster-shell markings and blisters.

"Fresh on yesterday, Mr. Boldrigg," he declared, "and look at it now. Paint's rotten."

The ex-coastguard walked to the side of the Olivette and prodded the sticky mess with a horny finger.

"It's got to come off, anyway," he remarked apologetically, "so it don't hurt to touch it. No, Master Stratton, 'tain't the paint that's at fault. You've been a-usin' sooji mooji."

"Yes," admitted the Patrol Leader, glancing at his discoloured finger-nails. "Caustic soda. We had to; the old paint was on so hard."

"There you are; there you are!" exclaimed the old sailor, shaking his head. "You puts on stuff to take paint off, an' expects new paint to stick over the sooji mooji. 'Tis like destroying weeds with weed-killer and expecting seed to grow on the same ground that's been poisoned, so to speak."

"Then how——" began Roche.

"Half a shake, my lad," continued Boldrigg. "Live and learn. You want to get the paint off. An old brush'll do that. Then wash your wood down with vinegar and water to kill the caustic soda in it. When it's dry, paint away, and you'll find that coat'll be all correct an' above board."

All hands set briskly to work. It was one thing trying to repair a fault for which no reason was forthcoming; another to profit by experience, with the knowledge that the mistake could be rectified. By eleven in the morning the Olivette was once more resplendent in a glistening garb of grey.

"We'll have to make one coat do," decided Stratton, "and whack on the final one at the first favourable opportunity. Bruin! Come away from that varnish. It's not treacle, old son."

"When do we launch her?" inquired Woodleigh.

"When the paint's dry," replied the Patrol Leader. "It ought to be set by seven o'clock to-night. We might try launching her on the evening tide. Are you all game?"

A chorus of assent greeted Stratton's suggestion.

"Right-o," continued Peter. "We've done all that is to be done for the present."

"The ballast?" queried Hepburn.

"Is tarred and perfectly dry," replied the Patrol Leader. "But we can stow that to-morrow. By the time we've launched the Olivette we'll have done quite enough. There are limits. Besides, we want daylight for that job."

At eight the same evening the Sea Scouts assembled once more. It was now about half-flood and too early for the actual launching operations, but the lads busied themselves by getting the dinghy out of store, greasing the ways, and in a variety of odd but necessary tasks.

Night fell, but the moon, almost approaching its full, gave sufficient light for the Sea Scouts to proceed with their work.

"Tide's high enough now," declared Peter, grasping a sledge-hammer. "Start knocking out those dog-spikes, lads. Stand clear of the ways in case she starts off unexpectedly."

"All clear this end!" announced Roche.

"Same here," added Flemming.

"Right-o," rejoined Peter.

The last restraining bond was removed, but the Olivette obstinately refused to budge an inch. Levers were brought into action without effect. In theory the fifty-four feet of hull ought to have glided down the greased ways in style to the accompaniment of ringing cheers from her crew. It was, therefore, a decided "damp squib" when she chose to remain seemingly as immovable as the pyramids of Egypt.

"Perhaps the ways have sunk," suggested Alan.

"Tide's falling," announced Roche, wiping his heated brow. "It's dropped a couple of inches."

"We must get her off," declared Peter. He felt that it was a slur upon his shipwright's knowledge. He had been responsible for the construction of the ways and the hauling out of the boat. The latter task had been performed without a hitch, and now, unaccountably, what ought to have been a relatively easy task had proved a regular teaser.

"I vote we borrow Dr. Mallerby's motor-jack," suggested Flemming. "That would start her on the downward path, I think." The suggestion was adopted, and the Sea Scouts proceeded to the doctor's house, which was situated at the remote end of Keyhaven village.

"How many fellows do we want for the stunt?" demanded Stratton, addressing his six companions. "Some of you ought to be standing by the boat."

"She won't move, worse luck," commented Roche.

A knock at the door was promptly answered by the doctor in person. It was now after eleven o'clock and the maids had gone to bed.

"Hello!" was his greeting when he recognized the Sea Scouts. "What's the game, eh? Are you going to do your good turn for to-morrow now, and get ahead of the clock?"

"We want you to do us a good turn, sir, if you please," said Stratton. "Can you lend us your motor-jack?"

"Certainly," replied Dr. Mallerby. "Where's the breakdown? Here's the key of the garage, Stratton. Take the jack, and, when you return it, lock up and put the key through the letter-box. Good-night!"

"Why," exclaimed Roche, as the lads approached the slipway, "I do believe she has moved."

"Yes," added Rayburn, the Tenderfoot; "she's turned round."

There was a laugh at this. The idea that the heavy boat could have swung round seemed preposterous. But the Tenderfoot was right after all. The Olivette had unaccountably launched herself, and was now riding to her bow-rope and the ebb tide.

CHAPTER II

Stolen

"Well, I'm blest! How did that happen? Quick with the dinghy, lads. No, Bruin, you stop there. It's much too late for little dogs to go afloat."

Four of the Sea Scouts manned the dinghy and pushed off to the Olivette. The bow-rope was cast off from the shore and made fast through the dinghy's stern ring-bolt to the transom. Then, with the gentle tide, the lads towed the Olivette to her moorings.

"Not such a bad day's work after all," commented Stratton after they had rowed back to the beach and taken the unnecessary jack back to the garage. "Ten o'clock to-morrow will be early enough. It's no use burning the candle at both ends."

Bidding his companions good-night, Peter whistled to Bruin and walked briskly home. His house lay half a mile inland from Milford-on-Sea, and to reach it he had to cut across a field, rejoining a main road within a few yards of the old church.

It was now past midnight, but the crew of the Olivette had told their people that they would be late home, and, being used to sea and ships, and knowing how dependent seafarers are upon the tide, the lads' parents realized the necessity for late hours on this occasion.

Peter had just cleared the stile when he noticed two men approaching. The moon was behind a cloud, but there was sufficient light to enable him to see that they were two strangers, and apparently fisherfolk. They were wearing jerseys, grey trousers, and canvas shoes. Slung over their shoulders were their pilot coats and sea boots, while one man carried a large canvas sack and was grumbling about its weight.

"Good night!" said the Patrol Leader, but the men passed him by in silence.

"Surly blighters," soliloquized Peter. "Wonder what they're doing this time of night. Fishermen from 'up along' most likely, who've had to wait for a fair tide back."

A few minutes later Peter was sleeping the sleep of healthy exhaustion, nor did he wake until eight o'clock next morning, when he was roused by his father announcing that Tom Boldrigg was waiting to speak to him.

"It's about the Olivette, Peter," added Mr. Stratton.

Hastily throwing on his clothes, the Patrol Leader went downstairs.

"Good morning, Mr. Boldrigg," he said.

"Good morning, Master Peter," rejoined the ex-coastguardsman, getting to the point at once. "Do you know that craft of yours ain't on her moorings?"

"No!" replied the astonished Peter. "She was there all right last night, and I made sure the bridle of the moorings was firmly secured to the bitts."

"Well, she ain't there now anyway," declared Boldrigg. "I was up and about at seven, and I believe I seed her making up t'east'ard, but my eyes ain't what they used to be, not by a long chalk. I went up to the station to borrow a glass, but all the men are away on manoeuvres. There's not a gobby in the place. So I came to see you, an' I've passed the word on to Master Roche an' Master Flemming, and told them to warn their opposite numbers."

"Then she's been stolen?"

The old man nodded.

"Seems like it, Master Peter. 'Tain't the first time a craft's been pinched. I calls to mind when I were stationed at Pitt's Deep, back in '97. But I'll spin that yarn another time. What are you going to do, Master Peter?"

"I don't know yet," answered the Patrol Leader. He was thinking hard. It seemed to him that the best step was to telephone to the various coastguard stations in Hampshire and the Isle of Wight. Several of the smaller and less important ones were temporarily closed down, but there would almost certainly be men on duty in the large ones.

"I'll run as hard as I can down to Keyhaven," he continued—"if you wouldn't mind my hurrying on, Mr. Boldrigg," he added apologetically.

Peter Stratton took to his heels, Bruin running with him, barking excitedly as if in his doggy mind he realized that something of extreme moment was troubling his young master.

Arriving at Keyhaven, the Patrol Leader found that Roche, Flemming, Woodleigh, and Warkworth were already there.

"I've telephoned through to Lymington, Peter," reported Roche. "The Olivette can't be very far away. Her paraffin tank's empty, and there's only enough petrol for an hour's run."

"Then," added Peter, with fierce determination, "we'll go after her in the dinghy."

"Dinghy's gone too," declared Flemming. "Two men collared her. I followed the track of her keel-band; two men with rubber boots, size tens, with lozenge-pattern-stamped soles."

Just then Alan and Rayburn joined the others, while down the road old Boldrigg could be seen moving at a smart pace.

"Mr. Boldrigg," hailed Peter, "may we borrow your boat?"

"Sure, certain," shouted the old seaman. "Take her. What be you goin' to do?"

"Stand in pursuit," explained the Patrol Leader, when Boldrigg, breathless with his exertions, gained the shore. "They've only enough petrol for an hour's run. If they stop in mid-Solent, the west-going tide will sweep them back, and we'll nab them."

"Then I'll come along with you," declared Boldrigg. "There's an old fowling-piece in the boat, and though it ain't a 12-pounder Q.F., I'll guess 'twill make those blokes think twice if we gets within range. All the gear's aboard, Master Peter. The lot of us'll manage to launch her down the beach."

The Mudlark was a decrepit old tub. Tom Boldrigg, although he had been pensioned for a good number of years, had not arrived at that stage when "there shall be no more sea". The boat was a centre-board, flat-floored craft about twenty feet in length, decked in for'ard and with a "fish-tray" aft. She was a suitable craft for running over the flats and working the small unbeaconed creeks on the Hampshire shore; but only in fine weather was she fit for the strong tides of the Solent.

Willing hands hauled the Mudlark down the beach. The mast was stepped and the tan sprit-sail set. Into the boat crowded the six Sea Scouts, with old Boldrigg at the helm. The Tenderfoot was left behind. The fact that none of the crew had had breakfast passed unnoticed in the excitement, but would be realized later, as would also the mistake of omitting to provision and water the little craft.

"We'll keep well over agen the flats," said Tom. "There'll be a mort less o' tide. You say there ain't but an hour's supply of oil aboard? Well, at seven or eight knots she won't be as far up along as Cowes, and now she's got a foul tide. We'll sight her in a couple of hours, Master Peter."

Stratton and the other Sea Scouts were equally sanguine. From experience they knew the helplessness of the Olivette when deprived of motor power. There were no sweeps on board, and she carried no canvas. The only means of propulsion would be by towing her from the dinghy, and it would take a terrific amount of energy in that direction to move her through the water at a mile an hour.

Inquiries of the skipper of an eight-ton ketch yacht, abreast of Jack-in-the-Basket, resulted in the information that no motor craft had put into Lymington River since five that morning, so one possible hiding-place was eliminated.

With the sail drawing steadily, the Mudlark slipped rapidly over the tide, keeping close to the fringe of mud-banks on the northern shore of the Solent. Pitt's Deep, open to full view, was a blank. So was the long expanse of shore between it and the entrance to Beaulieu River.

"She might have got in through Bull Run," suggested Hepburn.

"Might," agreed Peter, "but it would take a fellow jolly well acquainted with the place to get the Olivette through. We'll try it and see."

Close hauled on the port tack, the Mudlark skimmed through the narrow channel that affords a short but intricate cut into one of the most picturesque creeks on the south coast. As the boat passed one of the numerous "hards", the crew noticed a coastguardsman running towards them.

"Up centre-board. Down helm."

The boat's forefoot grounded on the shingle, Stratton and Roche jumped ashore to meet the bluejacket.

"You're looking for a motor-boat," announced the coastguard. "I had a telephone message through half an hour ago. She hasn't put into this river, and I've seen nothing answering to her description making to the east'ard."

Then, catching sight of old Boldrigg, he shouted: "Hello, chum. What ship now? Bit of a change from the old Polyandra."

Tom blinked his eyes as he studied the features of the coastguard.

"Can't recall your tally, mate." he replied.

"Not Tubby Young, boy 1st class aboard the old Polyandra back in 'nought nine, an' you chief bos'un's mate?"

"Sure I do," exclaimed Boldrigg. "But you've altered the cut of your figurehead. How's things?"

The old shipmates conversed for a few moments. Then the coastguard suggested trying the creeks on the Isle of Wight shore.

"I've had my glass on Thorness Bay and as far down as Hamstead," he added. "There's no craft up again the beach. Like as not she's pushed into Newtown."

The Scouts now re-embarked. It occurred to them that not only was the possibility of success diminishing but that they were hungry.

"We'll carry on as far as Cowes, anyway," decided Peter. "We'll make inquiries there, and buy some grub at the same time. All ready? Get her head round, Alan."

It was a long business stemming the now fierce tide. Half-way across the Island shore they spoke a coaster anchored while waiting for a fair tide. From her master they learnt that there had been someone on deck since sunrise, and certainly no motor-boat answering to Olivette's description had passed between Egypt Point and Stone Point.

"No use carrying on." said the Patrol Leader. "We'll stand across to the opposite shore and put into Newtown for grub. A pull on that mainsheet, Dick. Sit more to windward, you fellows."

Peter was now at the helm. Old Boldrigg, having handed over the tiller, was sitting on the bottom-boards puffing contentedly at a black clay pipe.

"Look!" suddenly exclaimed Hepburn, pointing astern. "There she is."

All hands looked in the direction indicated.

"Yes," agreed Peter, after a lengthy survey. "It's the Olivette right enough, and under power, too."

The motor-boat was about a mile and a half away, but by the "bone in her teeth", as her bows cut through the choppy waves of the weather-going tide, it was evident that she was moving at full speed.

That rather upset the Sea Scouts' calculations. A man and six strong, healthy boys, backing their arguments with a shot gun, could compel the unlawful crew of the Olivette to surrender if the boat were motionless. It would be an entirely different proposition to hold her up when she was forging ahead at eight knots. The Olivette could run down the Mudlark, or else turn away and leave her hopelessly astern.

Peter knitted his brows. All the scoutcraft and seamanship at his command failed to suggest a satisfactory solution to the problem. As a preliminary he told Roche to signal to her to stop.

Even as he cudgelled his brains as to the next step, he was interrupted by Dick Roche's voice exclaiming:

"She's not the Olivette after all. There's a number painted on her bows."

In a moment or so there was no doubt about it. The on-coming vessel was identical in design, colour, and size with the Olivette, so that the mistake was pardonable. There was a difference: on each bow she bore the legend "R.A.F. No. 5", while her crew were rigged out in the characteristic blue uniform of the Royal Air Force.

The motor-boat headed towards the Mudlark, slowed down, and reversed engines.

"Pretty asses we look," soliloquized Peter, "getting those fellows to stop. Jolly sporting of them, though."

"What's amiss?" demanded the officer in command, as he scrambled out of the cockpit. "Joy riding and feeling sorry you came?"

"Not at all, sir," replied Peter, saluting. "We've lost a boat and she's almost exactly the same as yours."

"S'long as she isn't exactly the same I don't worry," replied the flying officer. "Come alongside and tell me all about It."

The Sea Scouts did so.

"All right," continued the officer. "If we spot the Olivette we know what to do. There were about a dozen boats of this class built during the war, and no doubt yours was one of them. We're off to Studland Bay to pick up a derelict flying-boat and are taking her back to Calshot. Throw us your painter. We'll tow you back to Hurst."

"Cast us off opposite Newtown, sir, if you please," said the Patrol Leader. "We want to see if our boat has put in there."

It did not take No. 5 long to arrive at the black buoy marking the entrance to the complicated, five-armed estuary known as Newtown River. Here the Mudlark was cast off; sail was hoisted and with a beam wind the Sea Scouts were quickly within the entrance.

Inquiries at the Coastguard Station were fruitless, so, having practically cleared the little general shop of provisions, the lads reembarked, and with the last of the west-going tide managed to arrive at Keyhaven by six in the evening.

"There's Mr. Armitage and Rayburn," exclaimed Warkworth.

The Scoutmaster and the Tenderfoot were waiting at the edge of the quay. Judging by the expression upon his face, Mr. Armitage showed no concern over the obvious fact that the crew of the Olivette had returned without bringing with them the missing craft.

"Good evening, boys!" he exclaimed when the Mudlark came within easy hailing distance. "Any clues?"

"No, sir," replied the Patrol Leader despondently.

In present circumstances Stratton felt it a matter of impossibility conscientiously to carry out the Scout maxim, "Keep smiling". It simply couldn't be done. Dead tired with their long exertions, and dispirited at their utter failure to find a trace of the stolen Olivette, the crew could not raise as much as a suspicion of a smile.

"Buck up, you fellows," exclaimed Mr. Armitage, holding aloft a buff-coloured envelope. "I've just received a wire. The Olivette is safe and sound and in good hands!"