There was no sleep for either of the two Scoutmasters for the rest of that night. The still drowsy lads had to be attended to. Stratton, in particular, was in a bad way, while Roche complained of violent pains in his head. The others, beyond being rather scared at the peril they had undergone, were little the worse for their adventure.
"Wonder how it occurred?" inquired Mr. Jackson.
"I can't possibly imagine," replied Mr. Armitage. "I'm always very particular about lights, and, I am glad to say, none of the boys smoke, although I'm afraid I set them a bad example. The galley-stove is quite away from the engine-room. It beats me, but, when we examine the seat of the fire, perhaps we may find a solution to the mystery."
"We'm gettin' under way now, sir," shouted the skipper of the drifter. "Shall us pass a line ashore for you?"
Mr. Armitage turned to his companion.
"Might as well carry out our original plan, I think, and put her on the mud," he said. "The pair of us ought to be able to warp her out."
"Good enough," agreed the other.
The two Scoutmasters went on deck, swung out and lowered the dinghy, and threw a coil of rope into the stern sheets. Then, rowing off to a buoy near the centre of the harbour, they made fast the line from theRosalie'sbow.
"Cast off, please, and thank you," said Mr. Armitage to the crew of the drifter.
It was tedious but fairly easy work to man the winch and haul the yacht off to the buoy. The process was repeated until theRosalietouched the ground on a mud-bank that occupies a fair portion of the eastern part of Ramsgate Harbour.
"This has been a night," declared Mr. Armitage wearily. "Now we can stand easy till the tide leaves her. How about some tea?"
During the preliminary breakfast the Scoutmaster made inquiries of the boys, but they could give no information as to what had occurred. They were in complete ignorance of everything until they found themselves coming-to on the deck.
"We're all right now, sir," declared Hepburn. "Ready to start work on the propeller as soon as you like."
"You'll have to take things easily to-day, Alan," said Mr. Armitage. "I don't propose getting under way until to-morrow. We all need a rest."
While the tide was still ebbing, the fore-hatch was removed and the foul air allowed to escape from the fo'c'sle and the motor-room. Then the two Scoutmasters went below to investigate.
The fire had originated, they discovered, in a heap of cotton waste over which the overalls of the two engineers had been thrown. Some of the woodwork of the adjacent locker was charred and the paintwork blistered, but otherwise the damage was negligible. But whether the fire was caused by spontaneous combustion or from a spark from the pipe of one of the crew of the drifter remained an unsolved mystery.
"It's fortunate we don't rely on petrol for the motors," observed Mr. Armitage. "Otherwise it would have been all up with theRosalie. Paraffin's bad enough, but petrol—I saw a petrol-driven boat blow up once. It was a sight that one doesn't wish to see again. Now, I think the tide's ebbed sufficiently. We'll get to work."
A couple of large gratings were lowered over the stern. On these Mr. Armitage dropped cautiously, until he found that they were amply large enough to prevent his sinking into the mud.
"Now a mallet and chisel!" he called out. "The rope's wound round the boss as tight as a wire hawser. There's no clearing it except by cutting it through."
Ten minutes' steady work sufficed to free the propeller from the tenacious embraces of the fishing-net and rope. Mr. Armitage clambered on board.
"We'll leave those gratings till the tide rises," he said. "Otherwise they'll be filthy. The mud is as dirty as I've seen it anywhere."
"It does whiff a bit, sir," remarked Woodleigh. "Suppose it's the heat of the sun. Do we stay here, or shift back to our old berth?"
"Why not get on, Armitage?" suggested Mr. Jackson.
The Scoutmaster considered.
"There's Dover and Folkestone," he replied. "Neither of them is a very desirable spot for a small yacht. The next port of any consequence is Newhaven. That's a longish run."
He glanced aloft. The sky was clear. What wind there was wafted from the east'ard. The day seemed too fine to waste lying in harbour. The only question was whether the crew could "stick it".
"We're quite all right now, sir," declared the Patrol-leader reading Mr. Armitage's unspoken question. "It will be a jolly sight better out in the Channel than sticking in this mud-hole."
"Don't be disdainful, Peter," said the Scoutmaster. "There may be a time when you'll be grateful for the shelter of a harbour like Ramsgate."
He spoke feelingly, as one who knows the sea and its varying moods. He recalled a mental picture of an M.-L.—staggering, rolling, and lurching, with her decks swept and the windy blast howling through her scanty rigging. And then the indescribable feeling of relief when the staunch little craft won through and passed into the welcome shelter of the pier-heads.
"We'll carry on," he decided. "As you say, it's a pity to waste this fine weather."
It was a tedious business waiting for theRosalieto become water-borne. Slowly the incoming tide invaded the malodorous mud-flats until the wavelets slapped against the yacht's sides. Gradually she recovered from her slight list, and presently she swung to her hempen cable.
"Start her up, Dick," ordered the Scoutmaster. "Her props are clear of the mud now."
Roche and Flemming hurried below, and in less than five minutes a steady vibration and the regular cough of the two exhausts proclaimed the fact that theRosaliewas prepared to renew her acquaintance with the open sea.
There was now plenty of water in the intricate Ramsgate Channel, and the yacht made short work of the run to Dover.
"Take her inside the breakwater, Alan," said Mr. Armitage. "Here's the chart. That will give you an idea of what to expect."
"Why inside, sir?" asked Hepburn.
"Merely to give you fellows a chance to see what the harbour's like. Never throw away opportunities, Alan. In this case we go in by the eastern entrance and out by the western, so there's no need to put about and retrace our course."
All the crew were on deck as theRosalieapproached the massive granite wall backed by the lofty white cliffs of Dover. They had heard a lot about the Dover Patrol during the war, and were anxious to see the base of that efficient and hard-hitting force.
"What's that thing right ahead, sir?" asked Warkworth, as the yacht glided between the extremities of the breakwater.
"Looks like a stranded whale."
"That's the wreck of the monitorGlatton," replied Mr. Armitage. "She caught fire, and over a hundred lives were lost. There was enough explosive material on board her to destroy the greater part of the town."
"Why didn't it?" asked Woodleigh.
"The Handy Man saw to that," continued the Scoutmaster. "A destroyer torpedoed the monitor and sent her to the bottom of Dover Harbour. I'd like to take you over the old castle," he continued; "but it's out of the question just at present. Another day, perhaps, when we come here in our own craft."
Out once more into open glided theRosalie, and soon she was rolling and pitching in the strong tideway. It was not until she gained the broad expanse off Romney Marsh, where the low flat shore presented a poor contrast to the towering chalk cliffs, that smooth water gave place to the "rip" off Dover.
"Take her, Woodleigh," said the Scoutmaster. "S.W. by W.3/4W. is the course. You'll sight the lighthouse at the end of Dungeness very soon."
It was a pleasant, uneventful run. The Sea Scouts found recuperative rest after their adventure by basking on deck and taking notice of the numerous vessels passing to and from the Downs. The English Channel was here like a mill-pond. Not a ripple disturbed the surface. Occasionally the yacht lifted to the far-flung wash of a passing ship, but beyond that she was as steady as a liner.
"Something sticking out of the water right ahead, sir," reported the helmsman.
Mr. Armitage hurried to the wheel-house. Visions of drifting mines flashed across his mind. According to the papers, two of these sinister objects had recently been washed ashore on the Sussex coast.
But the object Woodleigh indicated was miles ahead—a slim, tapering column, rising apparently from a waste of water a point or so on the yacht's starboard bow.
"That's Dungeness Lighthouse," said the Scoutmaster. "The spit of shingle is still beneath the horizon."
"It looks different since I reported the matter," continued Woodleigh; "shorter. Before, it was much higher, and there was a curious-looking cloud over it."
Mr. Armitage had scarcely left the wheel-house when Woodleigh again called out.
Returning, the Scoutmaster saw that not only was the lighthouse distorted, but there was an inverted image above it. Practically the whole stretch of Dungeness, with the adjacent coast-guard buildings, appeared floating upside down in the air. Then after a brief instant the vision appeared to quiver and disperse, until the actual lighthouse tower resumed its normal appearance.
"Mirage!" exclaimed Mr. Armitage. "Not at all common; but I've seen similar effects off the south coast. It usually foretells hard winds from the east'ard."
"Then we did the right thing in getting under way to-day, sir?"
"Rather!" replied the Scoutmaster emphatically. "The open Channel's no place to be caught out in. Once we round Selsea Bill we'll be sheltered by the Wight, with plenty of convenient harbours under our lee. Here harbours are few and far between. There's Newhaven, Shoreham, and Littlehampton; all difficult to make in heavy weather. Shoreham and Littlehampton, too, are useless at low water. That's why I'm anxious to carry on."
Mr. Armitage glanced astern—to wind'ard. The sky was cloudless. The almost flat calm still held.
"We may get another twenty-four hours of fine weather," he mused. "Glass is falling slightly, and there's no question that the abnormal refraction of the atmosphere means wind, and plenty of it."
Nearly an hour elapsed before Dungeness was abeam. The Sea Scouts were greatly interested in the far-flung tongue of shingle, especially when they were told that it was one of the few places on the coast of the British Isles where the sea, instead of encroaching, was receding, and that the land was gradually but surely gaining.
It was a long stretch across Rye Bay, the shore being uninteresting, but when the cliffs of Fairlight came into view the monotony of the shore changed to a picturesque aspect. Cliffs, backed by grassy downs, were the predominant feature, whilst coast towns were frequently passed—Hastings, St. Leonards, Bexhill, and then Eastborne—sheltering under the frowning heights of Beachy Head.
"A breeze!" shouted the Patrol-leader, as the hitherto placid surface of the water was ruffled by little cat's paws. "Right aft."
"Set sail," ordered the Scoutmaster; then, under his breath, he added, "the breeze has come at the wrong end of the day's run; hope it won't freshen too much."
By the time Beachy Head Lighthouse—built on a rocky ledge at the base of the lofty cliff—was abeam, a fairly heavy ground swell was beating against the serrated line of rocks.
TheRosaliewas now doing practically her maximum speed under both motors and canvas, but with the wind right aft she rolled heavily.
"Is that Newhaven, sir?" asked Stratton, who was now at the helm, pointing to a wide depression in the cliffs.
"You're not the first to make that mistake," remarked the Scoutmaster. "That's Cuckmere Haven. Once, during the war, an M.-L. barged into the haven under the impression she was making Newhaven. It was a pitch-dark night, and before she found out her mistake she was nearly aground. Her crew fired Very lights, to see what sort of show they had got into, and the poor folk ashore thought that the Huns had landed in force. No, Newhaven's a good four or five miles farther along. You'll see it when it opens out beyond Seaford Head."
At that moment Mr. Jackson, who had been spinning yarns to the watch below, came up.
"We're making a good passage, Armitage," he observed. "We ought to make Newhaven by three o'clock."
"I hope to go farther than that," replied the Scoutmaster. "Shoreham, or even Littlehampton. There's bad weather coming, I fancy."
"I don't blame you," said Mr. Jackson. "After all's said and done, Newhaven's a rotten hole for a yacht. Too strong a tide and too great a rise and fall to my liking, to say nothing of the coal dust. Tea's going. I'll take charge of the deck, if you like, and you can get a meal."
To this proposal Mr. Armitage gladly agreed, and the Sea Scouts adjourned to the saloon, leaving the Oxford Scoutmaster at the wheel.
Judging by their appetites, the lads had quite shaken off the effects of their partial suffocation. Sitting round the table they looked the picture of health, with their bronzed faces and clear, mirth-loving eyes.
"'And there arose a mighty famine in the land '," quoted Mr. Armitage. "That's what'll happen to us by the way the bread and butter is disappearing."
"We can replenish our grub-locker at the first port we make, sir," said Flemming.
"Unless it's after closing-time," added Hepburn.
"Fortunately the Early Closing Act does not apply to vessels leaving and arriving at ports," corrected Mr. Armitage, "so tuck in with a good grace. I remember on one occasion——"
What happened at that particular time never transpired, for a sudden, disconcerting jar shook the yacht from stem to stern.
"By Jove, we're aground!" exclaimed the Scoutmaster, making a hurried exit through the companion-way to the deck. "What is it, Jackson?" he inquired anxiously.
"Marine road-hogging," was the reply. "Couldn't help it, Armitage. A porpoise leapt right in front of our bows, and theRosaliegave it a pretty tidy biff."
An examination showed that the hull had sustained no damage. The bow planking was as tight as the proverbial bottle, and, fortunately, the propeller-blades had not come in contact with the luckless porpoise.
"We're approaching Brighton," continued Mr. Jackson. "Although the tide's foul there isn't much strength in it. Breeze is freshening, but it's shifted a couple of points on the starboard quarter."
"Off the land," commented his fellow-Scoutmaster. "So much the better for us. No risk of gybing."
Shoreham they passed. It was low tide, and the signals from the Middle Pier proclaimed the fact that there was not enough water on the bar. In the circumstances there was nothing for it but to carry on for Littlehampton.
It was eight in the evening when theRosaliecautiously approached the entrance to the latter harbour. Sails were stowed, and a leadsman told off to take soundings.
Once it was touch-and-go whether the yacht would ground, for there was less than a foot of water under her keel; and it was with feelings of relief that Mr. Armitage gave orders for half-speed ahead as theRosaliepassed between the pier-heads.
"Not so dusty—Ramsgate to Littlehampton in a day!" he exclaimed, as the yacht moored between two buoys on the west side of the narrow harbour. He gave a glance at the now lowering sky. "Well, we're here," he added. "Wonder when we'll be able to get out?"
Peter Stratton had a weird dream. Perhaps it was the effects of the lobster that a friendly fisherman had given to theRosalie'screw to supplement their sadly depleted larder.
He dreamt that he was lying on a slippery shelving rock, with his feet dangling in the water. There was a lobster tugging at his toes—a big fellow, tugging and biting hard. He wanted to shout for assistance, but a man, who strongly resembled the thief who had stolen theOlivette'swarp, was cold-bloodedly ramming a rope's end into the Sea Scout's mouth. Peter couldn't prevent him. He had all his work cut out to hang on to the slippery rock with both his hands. Yet, in spite of his efforts, he was slowly yet surely sliding into the water, where myriads of crustacean fishes were awaiting him.
With a thud he alighted, not in the sea, but on the shelving floor of the fo'c'sle. He awoke with a yell, to find himself out of his bunk and lying in the angle formed by the floor and the rise of the opposite locker. Beating a tattoo with his bare foot upon Peter's face was Roche, while Bruin, thinking it was a rare bit of fun, was nibbling the Patrol-leader's toe.
For some minutes Stratton failed to grasp the situation. Then it dawned upon him. It was daylight—eight o'clock in the morning. TheRosaliewas heeling badly, lying right over on her starboard side. The occupants of the three bunks on the port side had been unceremoniously ejected—mattresses, blankets, pillows, and all. Woodleigh, Warkworth, and Hepburn, occupying the starboard berth, had merely slid against the skirting, and were slumbering unconcernedly.
It was raining heavily. Drops were pelting on deck, and a considerable amount of rain was driving in through the partly-closed fore-hatch.
"What's happened?" asked Roche, struggling into his clothes.
"Hanged if I know," replied the Patrol-leader, still rather hazy as to which was a dream and which solid fact.
Just then Mr. Armitage, clad in oilskins, sou'wester, and sea-boots, made his way into the fo'c'sle—a matter of considerable difficulty, owing to the angle of the slippery ladder.
"Morning, lads!" he exclaimed. "I meant you to sleep as long as you liked, but theRosaliewon't let you, I see. Hallo! three still slumbering sweetly."
"What's happened, sir?" asked Roche.
"Nothing very serious, I hope," replied the Scoutmaster. "We've been driven on the edge of the mud by the strong east wind—it's blowing half a gale—and the tide has fallen. Consequently we're high and dry, and heeling rather badly."
Above the howling of the wind could be heard the loud roar of the waves breaking over the east pier. During the night the wind had shifted to the south-east, and the sea was surging violently in the Channel.
Donning oilskins, Stratton accompanied Mr. Armitage on deck. The aspect of things in general, and theRosaliein particular, was not a cheerful one. Against the dark-grey sky showers of white foam showed up distinctly as the waves lashed themselves against the wooden piers. A cold rain added to the discomfort of the morning.
TheRosaliewas heeling at a sharp angle, with her rail on the starboard side amidships within a few inches of the slimy mud. In the fairway, only ten yards distant, the ebb tide, swollen by the rain, was surging furiously.
Sheltering in the wheel-house, with his feet hard against the edge of a locker, was Mr. Jackson, disconsolately surveying the inclined plane represented by the listing yacht's wet deck.
"Think she'll lift to the flood tide, Armitage? Frankly, I don't think she will."
"There's a chance she won't," agreed Mr. Armitage. "She's heeled more since I left you. The difficulty is, that we can't run a warp ashore till there's enough water to float the dinghy. By that time——"
He broke off abruptly.
"I'll manage it, sir," volunteered Peter. "I don't suppose the mud's softer than it is at Keyhaven."
"Perhaps there'll be someone ashore who will make a line fast for us," suggested Mr. Jackson.
But the river banks were deserted. Right at the pier-head, underneath the flagstaff from which was displayed the storm-cone, were a couple of oil-skinned figures, but their attention was centred upon something in the offing—a fishing smack attempting to run for shelter, but compelled to await sufficient depth of water on the bar. The men were looking through telescopes. Every few minutes they were hidden from sight by showers of spray, yet, oblivious to their immediate surroundings, they kept their attention fixed upon the craft attempting to make the harbour.
Under Mr. Armitage's direction everything that could be done to assist theRosalieto rise on the flood tide was undertaken. The scuttles were tightly closed, the dinghy swung out and lowered on to the mud so that her weight would not tend to retard the vessel's lift.
Stratton, with a light line made fast round his waist, lowered himself over the side on to a grating that he had previously dropped on the mud. Then, by the aid of a second grating, he moved a couple of feet nearer dry, or, rather, hard ground, lifting the first grating and placing it in front of him. It was a slow business, but at last the surface became sufficiently stiff to walk upon without the assistance of his improvised mud-pattens.
To the other end of the light line was bent the four-inch hawser. This Peter hauled ashore and made fast to a massive warping-post, repeating the process till a second rope was secured to the same post.
While the Patrol-leader was making his way back to the yacht the four-inch hawser was led to the for'ard winch, and the small rope taken aft and a watch-tackle clapped on to it.
"That's all we can do for the present," declared Mr. Armitage. "It's no use putting a strain on the ropes until the tide flows round her. Pipe all hands to breakfast, Peter."
Breakfast was a matter of inconvenience, not to say difficulty. The Primus stoves, not being gimballed, had to be propped up in a horizontal base and wedged to prevent them sliding bodily to leeward. The Sea Scouts ate their meal squatting tailor-fashion on the piled-up cushions. The only member of the crew who didn't take kindly to the novel situation was Bruin, whose attempts to walk the shelving floor caused roars of laughter from the boys.
"Time for action, lads," exclaimed Mr. Armitage, glancing through one of the cabin scuttles. Where the outlook formerly consisted of mud, there was now water. The rising tide was lapping round the side of the yacht.
Everyone on board realized the danger. Unless theRosaliebecame waterborne before the rising tide flooded her cockpit and poured below, she would be covered to a depth of five or six feet at high water.
Scrambling on deck and holding on as they moved to their appointed stations, the Sea Scouts prepared for the coming ordeal.
A heavy strain was taken on both ropes leading ashore to assist the vessel to lift, while all hands not employed at the winch and the watch-tackle hung over the port side, clinging to the shrouds so that their weight would help in levering the yacht on an even keel.
It was a spiritless job hanging on and waiting for the tide to rise. Buffeted by the wind and driving rain, the Sea Scouts stuck it gamely, until the period of inaction was broken by at quite unexpected turn of events.
The two men on the pier-head-who had been keeping their telescopes fixed seaward were now in a state of activity, shouting and gesticulating to an approaching vessel, which, however, was invisible from the sloping deck of theRosalie.
A few minutes later, pitching and rolling heavily, a large motor-boat staggered in between the pier-heads, her deck glistening with water that came inboard over her bows.
"She's theOlivette!" exclaimed Stratton.
"Looks uncommonly like her," agreed Mr. Armitage. "But she's one of a class. May be one of the same type."
In the shelter of the harbour, although the "gush" was fairly heavy, the heavy motor-boat ceased to pitch. Out of the cockpit climbed a man wearing a mackintosh coat and a "deerstalker's cap", the latter secured by a scarf tied under the chin.
"By Jove, you're right, Peter!" declared the Scoutmaster. "It is theOlivette. That's Mr. Murgatroyd. Wonder what he's doing here?"
Evidently Mr. Murgatroyd was expecting to find his former crew at Littlehampton, although he had never seen theRosalie, and one of the first craft that caught his eye was the listing yacht with the Sea Scouts at "Action Stations".
"Give her a cheer, lads," called out Mr. Armitage.
The boys complied with the utmost enthusiasm, the owner of theOlivettewaving another scarf in reply. Then, losing way under the reverse action of her propeller, the new arrival made fast to a buoy about fifty yards higher up stream than the still-strandedRosalie.
"Seems rather a shame to be found in this position," declared Hepburn. "Mr. Murgatroyd will think we're everything but a posh lot of navigators."
"She must have had a dusting outside," said the Scoutmaster. "We'll go alongside directly we're afloat. Now, lads, water's lapping over the lee gunwale. Heave away on the capstan and haul away with the luff-tackle."
For ten minutes it was touch and go whether the water would swamp the yacht before she lifted. The level of the rising tide was within a couple of inches of the cockpit coaming when theRosalieshook herself clear of her muddy bed. With a weird gurgling noise as the tremendous suctional powers of the ooze were overcome, the yacht recovered herself, and in a few minutes was on an even keel.
"Thanks be!" ejaculated Mr. Armitage fervently as he wiped the moisture from his face. "We'll shift our berth at high water. No more of these tricks for us."
"Fall in, the ration party!" ordered Mr. Armitage briskly. "Because we are weather-bound it's no reason why we should be hungry, Coming ashore, Jackson?"
The dinghy was brought alongside, and the two Scoutmasters, Woodleigh, Warkworth, and Hepburn pushed off. They ran alongside theOlivetteon the way up to the town.
"I hoped to find you here, Armitage," said Mr. Murgatroyd. "In fact I missed you by less than an hour at Ramsgate. Come aboard."
"We're replenishing a depleted grub locker," observed Mr. Armitage, "so we won't stop. We'll call for you on the way back if you'll care to have lunch on theRosalie. You'll find your old crew. This is Mr. Jackson. No, he's notRosalie'sowner He's a friend assisting us on our way. Right-o; we'll be alongside at eleven."
With the dinghy laden with fresh beef, potatoes, cabbages, bread, and a variety of smaller commodities, the foraging-party rowed down the river and called for their guest. The two paid hands who formed theOlivette'screw declined the invitation to visit theRosalie, and Mr. Armitage fancied that Mr. Murgatroyd looked relieved at their decision.
"Now tell us of your adventures," suggested the Scoutmaster, when Mr. Murgatroyd had inspected the internal arrangements of the yacht.
"There's not very much to tell," said theOlivette'sowner. "I soon got fed up with the East Coast. Too many sand-banks to my liking. I believe theOlivettefound a sand-bank at least three times on each occasion she got under way. So I decided to keep her in the Solent. It's merely a two hours' train journey from Waterloo to Southampton, and you're in sheltered water right away."
"The difficulty was a crew. I thought of telegraphing to you at Yarmouth, but I knew you would have your work cut out with theRosalie. The men I engaged at Brightlingsea—good fellows they were, too—couldn't get away, as they had to go fishing later on in the month, so I got hold of the two brigands you saw on board. Goodness only knows where they hail from. They certainly aren't East Coast men. However, I managed to get going, made Ramsgate, and found that you had just left. Held on, looking into Folkestone, Newhaven, and Shoreham on the chance of finding you, and finally came on here in half a gale of wind. And," he added proudly, "I wasn't sea-sick. I feel like an old salt, although I know I've a lot to learn yet. Must get hold of some textbooks on navigation."
"Don't," interrupted Mr. Armitage earnestly. "If you do, you'll probably chuck it up as a bad job. Three-quarters of the stuff in books on coastal navigation isn't really necessary. It might be useful, but it's not essential."
"Then what is?" asked Mr. Murgatroyd.
"Common sense, resourcefulness, and an ability to read a chart," replied the Scoutmaster. "These, in my opinion, are the essentials, coupled with a nautical instinct. One must be born, not made, for the sea, you know."
"My innate nautical instinct seems to be developing rather late in life," declared Mr. Murgatroyd. "At any rate, I like it. Jolly sight better than hogging it in a motor. When are you leaving here?"
"As soon as the weather moderates," was the reply. "Judging by the present outlook, we might be weatherbound for a week."
"TheOlivettewill sail in company with you, then," said her owner, "unless my paid hands desert. I rather wish they would, because they are the bosses and I'm a sort of human petty-cash till."
"If they do leave you in the lurch," said Mr. Armitage, "I think we can manage to spare you three hands, enough to work theOlivetteround to the Solent. Lunch ready, Woodleigh?"
It was a bounteous repast in spite of the deficiency of plates and dishes, for there had been heavy casualties in the pantry since theRosalieleft Yarmouth. Woodleigh, always a good cook, simply excelled himself, and Mr. Murgatroyd, drawing a comparison between the culinary arrangements on theRosalieand theOlivette, felt decidedly envious.
At high water the harbour-master came alongside, and, having collected dues, suggested that theRosalieshould shift her berth.
"You'll be all right between those two buoys," he said. "You'll probably ground at low water, but the mud's soft, so you won't heel there."
For the next three days it blew hard. The Sea Scouts endured the forced detention with fortitude, but whenever they landed and walked to the pier-head the aspect of the English Channel rather made them wonder whether it was going to be rough for weeks. As far as the eye could see, there were tumultuous, white-crested waves.
On Saturday morning Stratton saw Mr. Murgatroyd making violent gesticulations from the deck of theOlivette. Promptly the yacht's dinghy put off to find out the reason of the unorthodox semaphoring display. The owner of theOlivettewas excited and jubilant.
"They've deserted," he announced. "The scoundrels were paid on Friday night, and this morning they were missing. A waterman probably landed them."
"Perhaps they'll roll up again," suggested Mr. Armitage.
"Not they," declared Mr. Murgatroyd with conviction. "They've taken their gear. No, I don't want them back. Armitage, I accept your offer. Lend me Roche, Warkworth, and Hepburn, and I'll be eternally indebted to you."
The three Sea Scouts mentioned by name readily fell in with the arrangement, and their kit was transferred to theOlivette.
"I have a proposal to make," began Mr. Murgatroyd when, later on in the day, he paid a visit to theRosalie. "You may think it downright cheek, Armitage, and you may turn it down if you want to."
"Fire away, then," prompted the Scoutmaster.
"Your head-quarters are on the Solent, aren't they?"
"Not quite. There's a creek where we keep our sailing-boat—Keyhaven it's called—about a mile or so from Milford. That opens into the Solent."
"Enough water for theOlivette?" continued Mr. Murgatroyd.
"Plenty inside, but she wouldn't be able to get out at low-water springs," replied Mr. Armitage.
"Look here," said theOlivette'sowner, after making inquiries as to which was the nearest railway station. "This is my scheme: Suppose I keep theOlivetteat Keyhaven, will your Sea Scouts look after her? Take me for trips when I can run down? If so, you can use her whenever you want, whether I'm there or not. Virtually I remain the owner, but in practice she's yours."
"Quite a good scheme, from our point of view," replied Mr. Armitage. "In fact, it looks rather like sponging on you. We hardly——"
"Rot!" interrupted Mr. Murgatroyd. "It's aquid pro quoarrangement. I save both money and worry by it. Say the word, and she's ready for you when you've handed over theRosalie."
"Well, boys," said the Scoutmaster, "shall we accept Mr. Murgatroyd's offer, and signify our appreciation in the usual manner?"
TheRosalie'scabin resounded to three lusty cheers. Mr. Murgatroyd, beaming with delight, protested unavailingly against the display of boyish exuberance.
"That's settled, then," he said. "In future theOlivetteis the Milford Sea Scouts' craft."
Towards evening the rain ceased and the wind decreased considerably, flying off the land. With a rising barometer in conjunction with a rising thermometer, there were indications that the weather was improving, and that theRosalie'senforced detention at Littlehampton was merely a matter of a few more hours.
"Jolly good thing we are weatherbound," declared Flemming. "We've struck good luck here. Fancy having the use of theOlivette. Sounds too good to be true. Pinch me, Peter, to see if I'm awake. O—oh! Not so hard, you silly owl!"
Sunday dawned fair and bright, with a steady off-shore wind. Three days remained before the time stipulated for the handing over of theRosalieat Poole expired, and, given reasonable weather, there was no reason why the contract should not be carried out.
At nine o'clock theRosalie, with theOlivettefollowing sedately in her wake, passed between the pier-heads of Littlehampton Harbour, bound west.
Standing seaward for a mile, in order to clear the shoal patches off that part of the Sussex shore, both boats then ported helm and steered for the as yet invisible Selsea Bill.
All hands, including Bruin, were basking on the deck of theRosalie; while, glancing astern, they could see the owner and two of the crew of theOlivetteperched upon the latter craft's cabin top.
At intervals the Sea Scouts on the two boats would exchange semaphore messages. These were mostly of a frivolous nature, but they served to keep the boys in practice. Mr. Armitage rather prided himself upon the signalling capabilities of his troop. He had taught them to receive messages before being able to send them, which is more than half the battle in learning both Morse and semaphore. He knew from experience that in the majority of cases a learner who is taught to send before being able to receive rarely becomes a smart signalman—and he acted accordingly.
"Keep a sharp look-out, lads," said the Scoutmaster, as the low-lying Selsea Bill appeared in view. "See who'll be the first to spot the Mixon—a tall pile with a barrel on top of it. It should be a point on our starboard bow."
Actuated by the spirit of competition, the Sea Scouts clustered in the wake of the wheel-house scanning the distant shore; but for a considerable time their efforts to locate the important sea-mark were without success.
"Hope the beacon hasn't been washed away," said Mr. Armitage. "Unless we sight it we'll have a difficulty to find our way through the Looe Stream. It's narrow, with submerged rocks on both sides, and generally a nasty tide-rip to complicate matters."
"Fortunately we are not entirely dependent upon sails, nor have we to beat through," remarked Mr. Jackson.
"That's true," agreed Mr. Armitage, "but, in a way, I'm sorry. The introduction of marine motors has practically killed seamanship in yachts. Nowadays when a fellow encounters a foul tide, what does he do? In nine cases out of ten he starts the engine. Come along, lads, haven't you spotted the beacon yet?"
"What's that over there, sir?" asked Flemming, pointing to an indistinct object a good two points off the port bow.
"Why, that's what we're looking for—the Mixon," declared the Scoutmaster. "We're off our course. I expected to find it off our starboard bow. Starboard a bit, Peter. That's it. Keep her at that."
The alteration of helm was promptly noticed by the crew of theOlivette. The motor-boat had been maintaining her station splendidly, theRosaliehaving to reduce speed slightly to enable the slower craft to do so.
Passing a hundred yards to the south'ard of the beacon, both boats entered the Looe Stream, a short but somewhat intricate cut for craft making a passage from Spithead to the east'ard. In the actual stream there was very little sea running, although the tide set strongly, but on its western edge there was a regular, clearly-defined wall of tempestuous overfalls.
"We'll get it in a minute or so," declared Mr. Armitage. "Close the fore-hatch and the engine-room skylights, Peter. There's nothing not lashed down on deck, I hope?"
TheRosalieplunged bodily into the turmoil. White-crested waves poured over her bows and surged aft in milky foam, while spray dashed in showers high over the wheel-house. The belt of disturbed water was but a hundred yards or so in width. Beyond, the waves were regular.
Flemming was steering. The rest of the crew, including the two Scoutmasters, looked aft to see how theOlivettewas faring. Greatly to their surprise they noticed that she was slowing down and displaying a tendency to fall off into the trough of the sea.
"Hope her motor hasn't given out," exclaimed Mr. Armitage.
"I don't think so, sir," replied Stratton. "There's smoke coming from her exhaust, and the circulating-pump is still working. But, look! What is Hepburn doing?"
Apparently Warkworth was in the wheel-house. Roche had left the engine-room, and with Mr. Murgatroyd was standing by the low stanchion rail on the port side. Alan Hepburn, with one foot on the broad rubbing-strake, and hanging on with one hand to a stanchion, was evidently contemplating a plunge overboard. Already all three were wet through, owing to the spray and the waves that tumbled inboard as theOlivetterolled in the trough.
Suddenly Hepburn leapt. The watchers on theRosaliesaw that he took a coil of rope with him. He struck the water feet foremost, reappearing almost before the splash of the impact had subsided. Then, raising one arm as a signal, he was hauled back by Mr. Murgatroyd and Roche.
"What did he do that for?" asked the perplexed Stratton.
The answer, silent but expressive, came from Alan himself, for as he gained the heaving deck he held up a dank, dishevelled object for the crew of theRosalieto read, mark, and learn. It was Bruin.
The pup had been left lying asleep in the yacht's cabin. Unobserved, Bruin had made his way on deck and had coiled himself up under the dinghy that, swung inboard, was resting on chocks.
A heavy roll as theRosalietook it green on the tail of the Looe Stream sent Bruin into the briny, unnoticed by anyone on board.
It was Warkworth at the helm of theOlivettewho spotted the pup as it struck out in an unavailing attempt to overhaul the yacht.
Shouting to Roche to stop the engines, and hurriedly informing Hepburn of what had occurred, Warkworth steered as long as the boat carried way, while Alan, awaiting his opportunity, plunged overboard to the rescue.
As soon as theRosalieand theOlivetteentered relatively smooth water, Hepburn, without waiting to shed his saturated garments, stood on top of the wheel-house and held up a pair of hand-flags at the "preparatory".
"Acknowledge," said Mr. Armitage. "It's going to be something caustic, Peter."
It was. The semaphore message was as follows:—
"If Stratton can't look after Bruin better than that he'd better invest in a golliwog."
"Nasty one that, sir," remarked Peter, with a laugh.
The Sea Scouts were now approaching familiar water. Slightly on the port bow could be discerned the lofty downs of the Isle of Wight, while right ahead the three chequered circular forts of Spithead reared themselves out of the sea like inverted buckets.
"We'll carry our tide right through to Keyhaven," observed Mr. Armitage. "It may mean a slight delay before we can get in. To-morrow will be an easy run to Poole."
Not since leaving the Downs did theRosaliepass so many craft as she did in Spithead and the Solent. In addition to war-ships, tramps, and coasters, there were yachts by the score, from single-handed sloops to large schooners, and motor-launches dashing about in all directions, a fair percentage steered by men whose knowledge of the Rule of the Road was, to say the least, elementary.
Cowes, with its crowded Roads, was passed and left astern, and presently a tall, chimney-like shaft became visible right ahead.
"There's Hurst!" exclaimed Stratton. "I can see the lighthouse. No need to write home to-night."
Approaching the narrow entrance to Keyhaven with caution, theRosaliecrossed the bar with less than nine inches of water under keel. TheOlivette, drawing a foot and a half less, had no difficulty in following, and by four o'clock in the afternoon both craft were moored in the sheltered creek, and the Sea Scouts were within a mile or so of their homes.
"We'll have tea and then general leave for all hands," said Mr. Armitage. "You fellows can sleep ashore if you want to, provided you are on board by nine to-morrow."
He glanced in the direction of theOlivette, which was swinging to the young flood at a distance of fifty yards from theRosalie.
"By Jove!" he exclaimed, and pointed. Stratton, following the direction of the Scoutmaster's outstretched hand, also uttered an ejaculation, for swimming strongly for theRosaliewas Bruin. TheOlivette'screw, down below smartening themselves up, were ignorant that the pup had leaped overboard. Bruin, seized by a sudden inspiration after the manner of members of the canine world, had quietly taken to the water in order to rejoin the yacht.
"We'll pull their legs, sir," declared Peter, as he hauled the mascot on deck. "I'll take him below out of the way and then signal to ask them where he is. That'll put the wind up them."
"A better way, I think, will be to invite them all on board to tea," suggested the Scoutmaster. "We'll have to bring them off in the dinghy. Then there'll be some commotion when they can't find Bruin. Hail them, Peter."
At the Patrol-leader's stentorian "Ahoy!" Hepburn's tousled head appeared above the coaming. Alan was evidently in the midst of his toilet.
"Tea's nearly ready," shouted Stratton. "Mr. Armitage wants you all to come on board. We'll send the dinghy."
Within a few minutes Stratton was alongside theOlivette. Her crew boarded the waiting boat, Mr. Murgatroyd beaming with satisfaction at the picturesque surroundings of the sheltered creek that was to be theOlivette'shome port.
"Where's Bruin?" inquired Stratton. "You aren't going to leave our mascot all alone, are you, Alan?"
"'Course not," replied Hepburn, although, if the truth be told, Bruin had been overlooked in the bustle of 'snugging down and squaring up'. "Here, Bruin—come along, good dog!"
No Bruin appeared. Hepburn whistled, but without the desired result.
"He's asleep in the after-cabin, I expect," he suggested.
"You're a fine fellow to have charge of a dog," said Peter scornfully. "He ought to appear at once at your whistle."
"Then whistle him for yourself," retorted Alan.
"Not I," rejoined the Patrol-leader. "He's in your care, my festive, until you return him to theRosalie."
Hepburn whistled yet again. Roche and Warkworth added their quota of noise, but "nothin' doin'".
"He's probably gnawing my boots in the after-cabin," suggested Mr. Murgatroyd; "or, if he has cannibalistic tendencies, perhaps he's going for my dog-skin gloves. Hop aboard, Hepburn, and see what mischief he is doing."
Alan clambered over the side and went below. Chuckling to himself, Stratton heard his fellow Sea Scout coaxing and whistling the invisible mascot. Then Roche joined in the search, until in desperation the twain began to empty the lockers of their varied contents, and search numerous out-of-the-way places that were to be found on even a boat of theOlivette'ssmall displacement.
"Buck up, you fellows!" shouted Peter, as the two Sea Scouts paused through sheer inability to find an unexplored hiding-place. "What are you doing? Giving Bruin a bath?"
Looking very red in the face, Hepburn came out of the fo'c'sle and announced that he couldn't find the pup anywhere.
"Perhaps he's jumped overboard again," suggested Warkworth. "Suicidal tendencies, I imagine. It's the third time—once off the bawley, then overboard from theRosalie, and now——"
"Shut up!" ejaculated Alan, who, in common with the other Sea Scouts, was genuinely fond of the animal.
"When and where did you last see him?" inquired the Patrol-leader.
Neither Hepburn, Roche, nor Warkworth could say definitely. Mr. Murgatroyd, when appealed to, replied that he had a hazy idea that he'd noticed Bruin on deck while they were mooring.
"It's no use stopping here and hanging on to the slack," declared Stratton severely. "If the dog's lost, arguing about it won't find him. We'll get back to theRosalie."
Alan Hepburn looked at the Patrol-leader in astonishment. He could not understand why Peter had taken the news so cold-bloodedly, not even attempting to join in the search.
Rather dejectedly the three Sea Scouts forming the temporary crew of theOlivetteboarded theRosalie.
"Tea's ready," announced Mr. Armitage briskly. "All hands below."
The two Scoutmasters, Mr. Murgatroyd, and the Sea Scouts, with the exception of Peter, seated themselves at the table. The Patrol-leader waited until Mr. Armitage had passed the tea-cups round, and then gravely set a dish with a metal cover in front of Hepburn.
"Make yourself useful, Alan," he said. "Serve that out."
Obediently the unsuspecting lad removed the cover. On the dish was a golliwog made of rope-yarn and canvas, with a red bunting tongue and buttons for its eyes.
"What's the joke?" asked the now astonished Alan.
"You sent me a signal, I think," replied Peter calmly. "It concerned Bruin and a golliwog. Bruin has chosen us, so the golliwog goes to you. Here, Bruin, good lad."
The pup appeared from the recesses of a locker. Everyone roared at Alan's expression of amazement, while Hepburn, only too glad to find that Bruin was no longer missing, joined in the laughter.
"You're one up this time, Peter," he said. "Never mind; it was jolly well worth it."