image: IMAGENAME1
image: IMAGENAME1
[Illustration: "ALL CLEAR!" HE ANNOUNCED, EXHAUSTED AND TRIUMPHANTPage105]
[Illustration: "ALL CLEAR!" HE ANNOUNCED, EXHAUSTED AND TRIUMPHANTPage105]
"Heave me a line," he called out breathlessly. "I'm all right—don't want to hang on to the boat—she's rolling too much—rope's hard as wire—I'm cutting it through."
Five times the plucky Sea Scout returned to the attack. Pieces of frayed grass rope drifting alongside gave evidence of the progress of his labours. Finally he broke the surface, with a short length of rope in one hand and his knife in the other.
"All clear!" he announced, exhausted and triumphant. "Give me a hand, Desmond."
He had not the strength left to clamber up the side, but willing hands caught him and hauled him on deck to the accompaniment of a rousing cheer from theOlivette'screw.
"Plucky lad, that!" exclaimed Mr. Armitage.
"Yes," admitted Mr. Graham proudly. "There is one thing in which the Southend Sea Scouts can give points to the Milford fellows, and I know you won't begrudge them that."
"No," rejoined Mr. Armitage. "Your lads have more than earned their passage."
And the welcome purr of the motor, as theOlivetteonce more forged ahead in her normal style, emphasized the justice of the Scoutmaster's sentiments.
"Stand by with the Red Ensign and Code Pennant, Rayburn," ordered Patrol Leader Woodleigh.
TheOlivettehad passed Start Point, and was approaching the low-lying extremity known as Prawle Point, on which is built a Lloyd's signal-station.
The Southend lads watched the operation of "making her number" with deep interest. They had often heard and read of vessels proclaiming their names and destination by this means, but this was the first occasion on which they were about to see the "real thing".
Rayburn, theOlivette's"bunting tosser" had brought the signal-locker close to the base of the mast. Deftly he toggled the ensign above the red and white striped pennant and hoisted it. Then he drew four flags from the locker.
"That's our number," he explained to the temporary crew.
"'K J V T'—that's not a number," observed Findlay, who knew the International Code Flags by heart.
"Isn't it? It is," rejoined Rayburn. "They areletter flags, but they form a number all the same. They tell the signal-station that we are theOlivetteof London. Stand by with the signal-book, Hepburn." The Sea Scout signalman had the four flags together, and was now watching Prawle Point station through his binoculars.
Promptly the shore station hoisted the answering pennant, just "at the dip", to show that the signal was seen, and their "close up" indicating that the message was understood.
A E L W and A E N U followed in quick succession.
"They mean Southampton and Plymouth," explained Rayburn. "Our port of departure and the port we're bound for. Southampton is considered our port, since Keyhaven comes in that district. Now give me V O X."
"What does that mean?" asked Desmond.
"'I am going to semaphore to you '," was the reply. Rayburn glanced over his shoulder at Gregory, who was sitting on the raised cabin-top with his eyes fixed shoreward. "Mr. Armitage gave me instructions to report the picking up of young Gregory at West Bay. I think there'll be a rather astonishing reply." Taking up a pair of hand-flags, Rayburn awaited the acknowledgment from Prawle Point and then began to semaphore the message.
"Have picked up dinghy with 'Gregory, Abbotsbury' on her transom. One person in her is nowaboard. Propose landing him at Plymouth. Please telephone information to Gregory, Abbotsbury, Dorset."
Presently the long arms of the shore semaphore began sending out the reply:
"Boy escaped from Borstal Institute, Portland, yesterday night. Keep him on board until arrival at Plymouth. Will inform police there, who will take necessary action."
"Message received," replied Rayburn, then, turning to Findlay, he exclaimed: "Haul down!"
Meanwhile Woodleigh, standing just behind Rayburn, had written down the message as the latter dictated in a low voice the astounding news. Then, without giving any sign that might arouse Master Gregory's suspicions, the Patrol Leader went aft and handed the written report to Mr. Armitage.
"By Jove, Graham!" exclaimed the Scoutmaster. "How's that for character-reading? The young blighter is an escaped Borstal boy. I wonder what he was sent to Portland for?"
"Better not ask him," rejoined Mr. Graham. "He might give trouble. It's rather a wonder he didn't get the wind up when we commenced semaphoring."
"Perhaps he is in a bit of a funk," said Mr. Armitage. "However, that's his affair. I'm not going to spoil his few hours of unauthorized liberty unless he cuts up rough. There's Salcombe, lads. A snug harbour buta tricky place to enter. Bolt Head's just on our starboard bow. The next few miles is a magnificent bit of coast."
TheOlivettewas now fairly close to shore, about half a mile from the frowning cliffs of Devon. Fascinated by the sight of the surf-lashed shore, stupendous walls of rock, the Southend Sea Scouts gazed stolidly shorewards, while Mr. Armitage pointed out the various objects of interest between Bolt Head and Bolt Tail, and gave accounts of several notable shipwrecks that had taken place within the limits of the two forbidding headlands.
Then across Bigbury Bay, almost out of sight of land, theOlivetteploughed her way against a foul tide. The best of the day had gone. Misty-looking clouds were banking up in the west'ard with a promise of rain before very long.
"That doesn't look very inviting for a tramp across Cornwall," remarked Mr. Graham.
"It may be only local," replied Mr. Armitage. "Without casting any aspersions upon the attractions of Plymouth, I can assert that I have put into the Sound on at least half a dozen widely different occasions, and I have never yet done so in sunshine. It has always been raining pretty heavily."
Two hours later theOlivetterounded the peaked, isolated rock, known as the Mewstone, and the whole of Plymouth Sound with its magnificent breakwatercame into view. In spite of the fact that it was raining heavily, all the Sea Scouts not actually on duty in the wheelhouse and engine-room kept on deck to enjoy the view, for enjoyable it was even in the now steady downpour. Gregory too was up for'ard gazing, rather apprehensively it seemed, at the Hoe and Smeaton's Tower.
"I feel sorry for that chap," confided Jock Findlay to his chum Desmond. "I think he knows that there's something in the wind. He has hardly spoken a word since we passed Prawle Point."
"It's rough luck being pitchforked into the arms of a policeman," said Desmond. "Of course, we don't know what he was sent to Portland for, but I'm hanged if I like the idea of pushing him back. We can't help it, but it looks like a low-down trick on our part."
"Nearly there, you fellows," announced Woodleigh, as theOlivettepassed the end of Mount Batten Breakwater. "Don't you think you'd better sleep aboard again? It's not much fun tramping ten miles on a wet evening like this."
"Especially if you've got to sleep out," added Flemming.
The Patrol Leader bent down and spoke to the engineer through the open window of the wheelhouse.
"Turn over to petrol now, Warkworth, old son," he said. "We're almost at Sutton Pool."
The crew began to make ready with ropes and fenders, while Woodleigh kept a sharp look out for a suitable berth in the sheltered but considerably crowded harbour known as Sutton Pool.
"Unity, ahoy!" he hailed, addressing a short, thick-set fisherman in a blue jersey, tanned trousers, and sea-boots, and wearing a billy-cock hat that looked rather out of keeping with his nautical rig. "Can we berth alongside you? Are you putting out to-night?"
"Make fast alongside o' we," replied the skipper of the fishing-smackUnity. "You'm welcome, sure."
"Why don't you tie up alongside the quay?" asked Desmond.
"We never do if it can be avoided," explained Woodleigh. "For one thing, it's rough on our fenders, grinding against a stone wall; for another, we'd have to keep a watch on deck all night to tend the warps when the tide fell. Lying alongside the smack we rise and fall with her. Her crew will have to see to the warps."
The task of making fast had occupied the attention of all hands, but when the work was completed the Sea Scouts became aware that they were objects of considerable attention. There was quite a crowd of fishermen and longshore folk taking an interest in theOlivette, while standing discreetly in the background, with their helmets showing above the heads of the onlookers, were two stalwart policemen.
Instinctively the eyes of nearly all on board theOlivetteturned towards the object of the policemen's presence. Gregory had spotted the representatives of the Law too. Mr. Graham, regarding him from a distance of about twenty feet, fancied that his jaw dropped slightly and that his face became a darker tint. Beyond that Gregory gave no indication of either fear or defiance.
Presently the crowd parted as the stalwart men in blue advanced towards the quay-side with the obvious intention of crossing the deck of theUnityand boarding theOlivette.
Even then Gregory did not shift his position. Desmond, watching him out of the corner of his eye, wondered what the wanted youth was going to do. It seemed improbable that a hardened young criminal would give in tamely while a chance remained to attempt to escape.
"I think that if I were in his place," soliloquized Desmond, "I'd jump into the dinghy and scull forthe other side of the harbour like blue blazes. Perhaps he'll dish the bobbies yet."
Mr. Armitage advanced to the rail to receive the two policemen.
"You know what we're here for, sir?" remarked one of the men.
The Scoutmaster nodded.
"What's the lad done?" he asked in a low tone.
"Broke into an old woman's shop, rifled the till, and well-nigh did for her, sir," was the reply. "He's a dangerous chap, seeing he's not turned seventeen. Did he give you any trouble, sir?"
"None whatever, Constable."
"That's strange, sir."
"When a fellow's sea-sick there's the bottom knocked out of the universe as far as he's concerned," remarked the Scoutmaster drily.
The second constable had meanwhile sauntered for'ard, keeping the still unresisting but now restless Gregory between him and the bows of theOlivette. At a sign from his companion the policeman laid his hand on the wanted lad's shoulder.
"Come on, Greening," he exclaimed. "This is the end of your little stunt. Come quietly now, or there'll be more trouble."
"What for?" demanded the youth with sudden energy. "My name's not Greening—it's Gregory, and I ain't done nothin'!"
"And half a dozen other aliases, I suppose?" rejoined his captor caustically. "It won't wash, Greening, so chuck it."
The boy appealed wildly to Mr. Armitage.
"I've done nothin' wrong, have I, sir?" he exclaimed. "It ain't you who's given me in charge, is it, sir?"
The Scoutmaster did not know what to reply. It seemed a despicable act on his part to have kept the boy "in the dark" until his captors were upon him. He could only shake his head in a deprecatory way.
Gregory went quietly. With quite unnecessary vehemence the two policemen bundled him off theOlivetteand across the deck of the smack. Murmurs of pity rose from the throng of interested spectators, while execrations of no mild form were hurled at the crew of theOlivetteand the two Scoutmasters in particular, for their part in surrendering their charge. Clearly the sympathies of the Sutton Pool habitués were strongly in favour of the prisoner.
Suddenly the lad stopped and raised his head.
"Uncle! Uncle Garge!" he shouted.
A short, burly man on the fringe of the crowd, on hearing himself addressed, elbowed his way through the press and planted himself rigidly in front of the leading policeman.
"What you'm doin' wi' my nephew?" he demanded.
"Tell them my name's Gregory, Uncle," exclaimed the youth, before the policemen could say a word.
"'Corse it tes," rejoined the fisherman. "Same as mine, an' nothin' for to be ashamed on. What are ye got 'im for, perliceman?"
"Broke out of the Borstal Institution at Portland, day before yesterday," replied the constable laconically.
The little man held his sides, threw back his head, and laughed uproariously.
"Lead on, Joe!" exclaimed one of the policemen to his comrade. "We can't stop here arguing the point."
"Get back, man!" said the other constable, addressing the highly amused fisherman. "Get back, or I'll run you in for obstruction."
Just then the two Scoutmasters came up. The assertion of Gregory's uncle and the policemen's replies had been distinctly audible on board theOlivette. Realizing that there was certainly a mistake somewhere, Mr. Armitage jumped ashore to see the matter through, and Mr. Graham followed to back him up.
"I think there's some misunderstanding, Constable," observed Mr. Armitage. "We'll go with you to the station. This man's assertion quite conforms to—er—Gregory's statement when we picked him up in West Bay."
"But didn't you report the matter to Prawle Point, sir?" asked the policeman. "They telephoned the information on to us and we acted upon it."
A howl of execration burst from the lips of theonlookers. Clearly they regarded the Scoutmaster as the cause of the trouble.
Realizing that there was not much to be gained by arguing with a couple of policemen on Sutton Pool quay in the face of hostilely inclined onlookers, Mr. Armitage did not reply to the question.
A few minutes later the double doors of the police-station closed in the faces of a curious and demonstrative crowd, while the two Scoutmasters, Gregory, uncle and nephew, and the two policemen entered the charge-room, where they were greeted by a stern-faced inspector.
On the one hand the police had acted upon instructions. The description of the missing Borstal lad corresponded very closely with that of the youth removed from theOlivette. The time, place, and proximity to Portland, as far as the rescue in West Bay was concerned, tended to bear out the official view of the case.
On the other hand Uncle Garge Gregory, a well-known local smack-owner, was emphatic that the lad was his nephew and that he certainly was not at Portland a week ago, because his sister had mentioned his nephew in a letter.
"All you've got ter du, Inspector," he added, "is tu telegraph tu the police at Abbotsbury an' get them to see my brother Tom—young Tom here's father."
The inspector turned to Mr. Armitage.
"You reported the matter, I understand?"
"We merely reported that we had picked up a boat with a boy in it somewhere in West Bay," replied the Scoutmaster. "The reply to our signal was to the effect that the boy was the one who had broken out of Portland. We had no reason to doubt the statement. Now we know that it is wrong, but you must admit that the assertion did not come from us. I might also point out that the dinghy bears the words: 'Gregory—Abbotsbury'."
"All right, Gregory," said the inspector, addressing "Uncle Garge". "You can take your nephew away and be responsible for him. Bring him here to-morrow at ten o'clock—merely as a matter of form."
The crowd without raised a cheer when the two Gregorys appeared. Mr. Armitage and Mr. Graham were greeted with a storm of hisses and cat-calls.
Holding his nephew's arm, Garge Gregory mounted a doorstep and held up his hand. Such was the popularity of the little man that almost instantly the noisy throng relapsed into silence.
"Friends!" exclaimed Mr. Gregory in stentorian tones, "'tes all a mistake. You'm no call tu rant at these gen'l'men here. They be rare gude uns, seein' as 'ow they saved my nephew's life, so tu say. Look see: they bain't a-had nothin' tu du wi' this little misunderstandin'. T'was all the fault of the perlice; so don't 'ee shout agin' these gen'l'men no more."
"We'm mighty sorry to be sure, sir," said one of the men, who had been conspicuous in the hostile demonstration.
"Quite all right," replied Mr. Armitage hurriedly. "We all make mistakes sometimes."
It was nearly eight o'clock when the two Scoutmasters regained theOlivette. Although the rain had ceased it was now quite out of the question to think of the Southend Sea Scouts setting out on their long trek.
"We are sleeping on board to-night," announced Mr. Graham, after Mr. Armitage had briefly related what had occurred at the police-station. "If any of you fellows want to stretch your legs, let me recommend a stroll round the Hoe before it gets dark."
A little later a fisherman crossed the deck of theUnityand dumped a pailful of fish into theOlivette'swell.
"Might come in handy like, mister," he said sheepishly. "Us—me an' my mates—wish tu make amends, in a manner o' speakin', for kicking up a shine. Us hopes you'll let bygones be bygones, sir, an' if you'm wantin' any assistance while you'm stoppin' at Plymouth don't 'ee be afraid tu ax any o' we."
At eight o'clock on the following morning theSpindrift'snavigation party "fell in" on the deck of theOlivette. Each member carried a couple of blankets rolled in a ground-sheet, haversack containing toilet requirements in the outer pocket, and rations in the inner one. In addition, Mr. Graham had a pair of binoculars slung across his shoulders, and carried a bundle of charts. Patrol Leader Desmond was responsible for the bulky volumes,The Channel Pilot,Lists of Lights, and theAdmiralty Tide Tables. Findlay was additionally burdened with a camp kettle with a folding handle, while Hayes acted as "emergency man" to relieve the others of their additional gear in turn.
"Good luck andbon voyage!" exclaimed Mr. Armitage. "We'll keep a look out for you when you approach the Wight. We're generally cruising about there when we haven't any particular object in view."
"I suppose you'll make Falmouth to-day," remarked Mr. Graham.
Mr. Armitage glanced aloft, where the clouds were scudding fairly rapidly across the sky.
"Glass is falling," he replied. "I think we'll keep inside the breakwater to-day. Look here, Graham, suppose we run you up the Tamar. It will knock about twelve miles off your journey."
"Thanks awfully," said Mr. Graham frankly.
"We don't know the Tamar," continued Mr. Armitage, "but there's no reason why we shouldn't find our course up the river. It won't be the first time we've had to navigate strange waters. It will be rather fun. Start her up, lads."
In five minutes the crew of theOlivettehad their able little craft ready to get under way. The warps holding her to theUnitywere cast off, and the boat began to gather way.
As usual, Mr. Armitage left the navigation to his Patrol Leader, merely standing by ready to correct any possible error that might result in a serious mishap. So Woodleigh, with a large-scale chart of "The Approaches to Plymouth", was in the wheelhouse, giving the course to Flemming at the wheel.
Warkworth was in charge of the motor, and, as was the invariable custom in crowded waters, kept within arm's length of the clutch. The rest of the Sea Scouts were on deck taking in the ever-changing view with the deepest interest.
Drake's Island glided past on the port beam. Theintricate narrows between Devil's Point and Cremyll were safely negotiated, and the expansive Hamoaze, a sheltered sheet of water large and deep enough to accommodate the navies of the world, came into view.
Assisted by the strong flood-tide, theOlivettemade rapid progress past the Royal Dockyard and Keyham Yard to starboard, and with warships of all sizes and descriptions lying at moorings on their port hand.
"There's a bridge right ahead of us, sir," reported Rayburn. "Shall we have to lower our mast to go under it?"
"How high is our mast?" asked the Scoutmaster gravely.
"Twenty-five feet, sir," replied Rayburn promptly.
"We may just do it, then," rejoined Mr. Armitage. "You needn't bother about unshackling the forestay just yet. Wait and see what the clearance of the bridge looks like when we get a bit nearer."
A couple of minutes later Rayburn came aft again. "I think we'll just manage it, sir," he reported.
"Very well; carry on," was the response.
It was not long before the two miles of river below the bridge were covered, and when theOlivetteglided serenely under one of the wide and massive spans Rayburn positively blushed. What he had taken to be a low bridge was in reality the famous Saltash Bridge, with a clearance of a hundred feet.
"That's one up against you, Rayburn!" exclaimedHepburn, and in the general laugh the embarrassed Sea Scout went below.
"Ease her down, Flemming," suggested Mr. Armitage. "We're getting into an intricate waterway, and if we touch with a lot of way on we may do ourselves damage."
Above Saltash Bridge the Tamar contracts considerably. What it loses in breadth it gains in scenery, for on either side high ground crowned with trees made a picturesque setting to the tidal estuary.
"We're in luck," said Woodleigh, pointing to a small paddle-steamer ahead. "She'll be our pilot."
In a few minutes theOlivettehad overhauled the paddle-boat sufficiently to be right in her foamy wake. Speed was still further reduced until the distance between the two craft was evenly maintained.
"Woodleigh will make one of the smartest coastal navigators going," observed Mr. Armitage to his brother Scoutmaster. "He knows all the 'tricks of the trade' already. He'd make a capital master of a tug or coasting vessel, but curiously enough he hasn't shone at deep-sea navigation. I tried to teach him to work out a position by sextant, but it was hopeless."
"And yet, on the other hand," rejoined Mr. Graham, "how many seamen one meets who are absolutely out of it when navigating in shallow waters. I've seen Royal Navy men—jolly smart fellows at their work—'tied up in knots' when compelled by circumstancesto navigate shallow, intricate channels, through which yachtsmen and fishermen venture with impunity."
Calstock, a small village boasting a magnificent stone railway bridge across the river, came into sight. This was theOlivette'slimit as far as the Tamar was concerned. Berthing alongside the quay and astern of the steamer that had perforce acted as a pilot, the crew once more bade their guests and fellow Sea Scouts good luck.
Mr. Graham, armed with an Ordnance map, "set the course", aiming as far as possible to keep off the highroad. This meant loss of speed; but on the other hand it was preferable to tramping stolidly along a hard-surfaced highway.
The lads were thoroughly enjoying themselves. Tramping after a sea voyage came as a complete change. What was more, there was a goal for which they were making—something to speed them to renewed energies. By five o'clock in the afternoon they arrived at the old-fashioned Cornish town of Launceston, where, guided by a local Scoutmaster, they found a splendid camping-ground a little to the north of the town.
It was a Spartan-like camp, but fortunately the weather was decidedly on the mend. The drizzle they had experienced at Plymouth had been left behind, and on the lofty Cornish hinterland the ground was quite dry and the air marvellously bracing.
Very soon a fire was burning brightly. Over it,suspended by a stout sapling held up by a couple of crossed poles, the kettle boiled very quickly.
It was a gorgeous, Scout-like meal. Tea slightly flavoured with the reek of burnt wood, huge slabs of bread liberally plastered with fresh butter, kippers (purchased in Launceston) fried in the hot embers, and huge, floury potatoes baked in their skins, made a satisfying and appetizing repast.
"How's that wound on your toe, Desmond?" inquired Mr. Graham. He had asked the same question at least half a dozen times before, and the Patrol Leader had stoutly asserted that he hardly felt it, and that it was healing nicely.
"It's a bit painful, sir," admitted Desmond reluctantly. While he had been on the move he had practically forgotten all about it; but now, sprawling on the turf, he was aware of a persistent and increasing throb.
"Take your shoe and stocking off and let me see the injury," said the Scoutmaster.
Desmond did so. In spite of the fact that the ratbite had been carefully washed with disinfectant the flesh was badly inflamed.
Mr. Graham dressed the wound and insisted on the Patrol Leader keeping still for the rest of the evening.
"We'll see how it looks in the morning," he added. "If it's not considerably better you'll have to finish the trek by train."
It was jolly plucky on Desmond's part to have started with a toe in that condition; but he failed to grasp the other side of the case. By "carrying on" he had made the wound worse, with the result that he might be laid up for several days, and thus throw a heavy strain upon the rest of the crew of theSpindrift. If, however, he had admitted that his foot was painful, Mr. Graham would have sent him to Bude by train from Plymouth, and in all probability, by the time the others arrived to take over the yacht, Desmond would have been able to carry out his duties without physical discomfort.
The fire was kept up and given a plentiful supply of fuel when darkness set in. The four trekkers had already prepared their beds on a sloping expanse of turf under the lee of a rough stone wall. Making the beds was a simple matter, and consisted of scooping out a small hole to take the pressure of each sleeper's hip. Then the ground-sheets were spread proofed-side downwards, and the blankets arranged to fold over so that there were two thicknesses above and below the sleeper. Haversacks laid over a heap of moss provided a pillow, while the fold of the ground-sheet over everything made an effectual protection from the night dews.
"Comfortable, Desmond?" inquired the Scoutmaster.
"Yes, sir," came the muffled reply.
"Good night, everyone!" exclaimed Mr. Graham.
"Good night, sir," was the rejoinder from three very sleepy lads, and five minutes later silence reigned in the camp.
Almost before the sun had risen Hayes awoke, stretched himself, and got up. His companions were still sleeping soundly. Resisting the temptation to place a wet sponge on Jock Findlay's face, the Sea Scout went to a near-by brook and washed. Then, stirring the still-glowing embers of last night's fire and applying fresh fuel, he coaxed the dried wood into a healthy blaze.
"Isn't it fine!" he exclaimed to himself, as he stood erect, breathing in the pure moorland air and surveying the expanse of undulating ground terminated by the rugged heights of Brown Willy. "I never thought there was such a view. There ought to be some scheme for sending East Coast Scouts to camp in Cornwall, and give Cornish Scouts a chance to see the Essex mudflats. Now then, you sleepy bounders! Out you turn."
By the time the others had performed their ablutions, Hayes had the porridge under way. It hardly mattered that one kettle had to answer for all culinary purposes; that the porridge had a slight flavour of tea and that there were a few tea-leaves in it. Toned down with thick Cornish cream and a lavish quantity of golden syrup the porridge disappeared, and waspronounced excellent. Slices of streaky bacon grilled over the fire were devoured with gusto, notwithstanding particles of wood ash which adhered to the fat.
Breakfast over, the Sea Scouts struck camp. They did so methodically. The blankets, after being aired, were folded; the scanty gear cleaned and packed away. Then the cinders of the fire and all loose paper and refuse were buried, so that the owner of the land would have no cause for complaint.
"Now let me see your toe again, Desmond," said Mr. Graham.
Desmond felt none too happy as far as his injury was concerned. He sat down and removed the dressings.
"H'm," remarked the Scoutmaster. "A little better, but there's still a fair amount of inflammation. It's the puff-puff for you, my lad. It's as much as you can do to walk to the railway station."
Protesting ineffectually, the Patrol Leader was escorted into the town. At the station it was found that there was a train in an hour and a half's time.
"You'll be there before us, old man," said Jock consolingly. "Since you've got to keep your foot up you might try lying on one of the bunks of theSpindriftin case there are any rats on board. They seem very partial to you."
"That's a fact," rejoined the victim bitterly. "I guess that rat knew I have a Naturalist's Badge."
Shortly after three o'clock Mr. Graham, Findlay, and Hayes trudged into Bude. They were tired and slightly footsore, but the prospect of taking possession of their gift yacht made them forget the effects of their long tramp.
On making inquiries for the yacht yard the Scoutmaster was directed to the canal, the lower part of which forms the wet dock of Bude Harbour. Outside the lock gates the harbour practically dives right out, and is accessible only at certain states of the tide. Originally the canal ran from Bude to Launceston, but, with the exception of a stretch of about a couple of miles, that waterway has fallen into decay.
"Where is theSpindrift, I wonder?" asked Findlay, when they arrived at the bridge crossing the canal.
No yacht was to be seen. There were a couple of coasting craft—topsail schooners both—and a few small boats lying in the basin. In the outer harbour a brigantine had taken the ground, and was lying with a pronounced list to starboard. Beyond that there wasnothing that could possibly be taken for theSpindrift.
"We'll soon find out where she is," rejoined Mr. Graham. "Here's the office of the yacht yard."
One of the partners of the firm received the arrivals with cordiality.
"Yes, she's lying well up the canal," he replied, in answer to the Scoutmaster's question. "All the gear is on board, and we've filled the tanks with fresh water. You have merely to provision your ship and start away as soon as the tide serves. Oh, no: there is nothing to pay. Mr. Collinson instructed us that the account was to be sent on to him. We did so, and received a cheque in settlement this morning."
"By the by," said Mr. Graham, "has a Sea Scout named Desmond—one of our troop—called here this morning?"
"No—at least I think not," was the reply. "I was out for about an hour, so he may have looked in. I'll ask the foreman."
The foreman, on answering the summons, volunteered the information that he had seen a Scout hurrying along the other side of the canal.
"I didn't take much notice, sir," he added, "seeing as there be plenty of them lads up-along in the holidays."
"Then perhaps he went straight on board," suggested Mr. Graham. "Did you notice that he limped a little?"
"Seein' as how you mentions it, sir," replied the foreman, "I think he did."
"That's Desmond," declared the Scoutmaster with conviction. "Well, we'll go aboard. She's not locked up, by any chance?"
"No," replied the yacht agent. "We left the cabin door open to give plenty of fresh air. We've a couple of hands working on a boat alongside, so everything will be quite safe, even if your Sea Scout isn't on board."
Five minutes later the Sea Scouts had their first glimpse of theSpindrift. She was a powerful, able-looking craft, looking spick-and-span with her freshly painted topsides and newly varnished spars and cabin-top. Apparently her sails had been hoisted for airing purposes during the morning, for the sail covers were off and the canvas loosely furled.
For the moment, it must be confessed, Desmond was forgotten. In their eagerness to inspect their new possession Scoutmaster and Sea Scouts jumped on board and went below.
"What a decent cabin!" exclaimed Hayes. "Almost as big as theOcean Bride's."
"But not quite so high," added Findlay, speaking feelingly, for he had just seen a galaxy of stars through his head coming in contact with a deck-beam.
"Two bunks," continued Hayes.
"Four," corrected Jock. "Those seats form bunks,and there are two swinging cots above them. And here's the fo'c'sle. Quite a posh affair."
It was certainly larger than the average run of fo'c'sle in craft of that size. One portion was partitioned off, forming a pantry to starboard and a galley to port. On either side were "sparred" lockers, giving plenty of fresh air, while above were two folding cots. Right for'ard was the chain-locker, while the floor space was occupied by a miscellaneous assortment of ropes, blocks, navigation lamps, bucket and mop, and other articles of a yacht's equipment.
Meanwhile Mr. Graham had gone ashore to interview the two workmen concerning Desmond. Already he was pretty certain that the Patrol Leader hadn't been on board. Had he been so he would have carried out the Scoutmaster's instructions and rested his foot. None of the leather cushions in the cabin bore traces of having been sat upon recently; nor was there any sign of Desmond's kit. Having once been on board he was not likely to have gone off without leaving his blankets and other baggage behind him.
The boat-builders were emphatic that no one except the employees of the firm had been on board that morning or afternoon—not even during the dinner hour, for they had brought their food with them, since they lived at Stratton, a good two miles away.
"Lads!" exclaimed Mr. Graham. "We haven't found Desmond."
"I forgot all about him, sir," admitted Findlay. "Where do you think he is?"
"I can't say," replied the Scoutmaster. "He may have missed a train. He had to make one change."
"But he was seen along the canal, sir," said Hayes. "The description was correct: he limped."
"Limping is not an unusual thing, especially in the holiday time," rejoined Mr. Graham. "Galled heels, feet cut by glass while bathing, a hack while skylarking—there are a dozen common causes; so we can't be certain that the Scout was Desmond. I'll go across to the railway station and make inquiries."
"Shall we come too, sir?" asked Findlay.
"Hardly necessary, Jock," was the reply. "You've had quite enough walking for to-day. While I'm away you might overhaul the halliards and see how they lead. Hayes can square things up in the fo'c'sle and see about getting the galley stove under way."
Mr. Graham set off on his quest. He was certainly anxious about Desmond. The lad was a level-headed youth who knew how to take care of himself, and his failure to put in an appearance was therefore more of a serious matter than if he had been an irresponsible lad. And had Desmond not been of a dependable character, the Scoutmaster would not have allowed him to make the railway journey alone.
On inquiry Mr. Graham was informed, by a porterwho collected the tickets, that a Sea Scout carrying his kit and having a slight limp had arrived by the twelve o'clock train, and, in order to confirm his statement, he produced the tickets given up by passengers by that train. Amongst them was one single from Launceston to Bude.
Armed with that information, the Scoutmaster made his way to the harbour. It was now nearly low tide, and the natural breakwater of kelp-covered rocks was high and dry. On it was a rough track leading to the bathing pool known as Sir Thomas's Pit. Was it probable that Desmond had gone for a bathe and had met with an accident? Hardly likely, otherwise the news would have spread. There were always numerous bathers on this spot, and, besides, Desmond's clothes were marked with his name. Nor was he likely to have been cut off by the tide, for at noon it was just about to ebb. The suggestion that the lad might have fallen over the cliffs was also a subject for mental debate; but this Mr. Graham rejected. A lad with a wound on his toe was hardly likely to indulge in the pastime of scaling cliffs.
Greatly perturbed the Scoutmaster returned to theSpindrift. It was now nearly six o'clock. Desmond even had he loitered anywhere—a thing he was very unlikely to do—ought to have put in an appearance long before that time.
Stopping only to drink a cup of tea and eat a bullybeef sandwich, Mr. Graham resumed his quest. Another visit to the yacht agent's place proved unsatisfactory. The foreman could give no further information; none of the other hands could throw any light upon the matter.
The Scoutmaster's next step was to board the two coasters. The master of each was sympathetic, but could not give any news of the missing Patrol Leader. Inquiries of the coast-guard were equally fruitless.
"Bless you, sir!" exclaimed the look-out man. "We get dozens of youngsters up-along here all day. Unless they get too near the cliff or start heaving stones at the hut we don't take much stock of 'em. He'll turn up all right, sir, never you fear. If he'd a-come to harm you'd have 'eard about it long ago. Still, I'll keep my eyes open an' I'll warn my relief when he takes over."
Undecided in his mind as to what course he should now pursue, Mr. Graham was like the proverbial "cat on hot bricks" during the rest of the evening. Being responsible for the missing boy he hesitated to telegraph to Desmond's parents. Should the Patrol Leader turn up safe and sound it would be a false alarm, calculated to cause needless anxiety to them. On the other hand, if anything serious had befallen the lad it was gross remissness on the Scoutmaster's part not to have communicated with his people at Southend.
The same argument applied to the suggestion of communicating with the local police.
"Hang it all, Findlay!" exclaimed Mr. Graham at length. "I can't stick this any longer. We'll search together for him. Hayes, you had better remain here in case Desmond puts in an appearance while we are away."
"Ay, ay, sir," replied both lads promptly.
Patrol Leader Desmond's chief inclination, upon arriving at Bude railway station, was to make the acquaintance of theSpindriftas soon as possible. He had two reasons for so doing: he wanted to see what the yacht was like; he also wished to rest his injured foot in order to get it well as quickly as he could. The thought of being an idler on board, when there was plenty of work for all hands, was repugnant to a fellow of his energetic character.
On making inquiries, he was directed to follow a footpath crossing a stream and leading to the lock gates.
"That's theSpindrift," he said to himself, as the slender masts of a small craft came into view, "or perhaps she's that 'two sticker' lying farther up. I'd better ask someone."
The first person he met was a freckled-faced, curly-haired seafaring man with earrings. He wore no hat, but the visible part of his attire consisted of a loose canvas jumper, a pair of tanned trousers, and browncanvas shoes. He only wanted a musket slung across his shoulder, brace of flint-lock pistols, and a sheath-knife to be the living counterpart of a seventeenth-century buccaneer.
"Please can you tell me if that is the yachtSpindrift?" inquired Desmond politely.
The man looked him up and down before replying. "Ay, 'tes 'er," he announced briefly.
"Thank you," rejoined the Patrol Leader, and was about to resume his way when the man addressed a string of questions uttered in the broadest Cornish dialect.
Desmond shook his head. He did not understand a single sentence.
The man merely grinned, and, without attempting to repeat his words, rolled unsteadily away.
"Funny sort," soliloquized the Patrol Leader. "Looks as if he hasn't lost his sea-legs. But I've found out what I wanted to know."
Arriving at the canal basin, Desmond saw that the ketch was lying alongside the farthermost wall. To get to her necessitated a considerabledétour, and, in addition, he had to cross a plank bridge over the lock gates.
As he limped along, Desmond took stock of the little craft. She was spoon-bowed, with a raking transom. There was no name painted on her stern, nor anywhere else as far as the Patrol Leader could discover. Hertanned sails were uncoated and loosely furled ready to be hoisted.
Getting on board with no little difficulty, Desmond found that the cabin doors were locked, which was rather what he expected. The circular hatch in the fore-deck was, however, open.
"Good enough," thought the lad. "I can get into the cabin through the door in the for'ard bulkhead."
He lowered himself into the fo'c'sle. For some seconds he was almost blinded by the sudden change from the dazzling sunshine to the gloom below, especially as his bulk intercepted most of the light from the open hatch.
Rather to his disappointment he found the sliding door closed and bolted on the inside. If he were to gain admittance it would be necessary to obtain the key from the person in charge of the yacht. Desmond was hot, tired, and feeling a fair amount of pain in his injured toe.
"Not worth the fag," he contended. "I'll turn in here."
The fo'c'sle boasted a couple of cots, one folded back against either side of the boat. What struck Desmond as being remarkable was the presence of a number of enamelled cups, saucers, and plates that badly wanted washing up, together with the fragments of a meal consisting of bully beef, sardines, and tinned apricots.
"I expect the workmen have been grubbing here," he hazarded. "They're not Scouts, or they would never have left the place in such a mess."
There was a Primus stove in the gimbals, and close to it a saucepan half filled with lukewarm water. On a nail in the sliding door was a tea-towel.
Desmond set to work with a will to wash up the plates and dishes and to stow them away. This done—it was hot work in the confined space, what with the sun shining on deck and the heat of the stove below—the Patrol Leader felt more tired than before.
Lowering one of the cots, and using a sail-bag for a pillow, Desmond turned in. For a while his toe throbbed painfully, then the desire for sleep overcame every other sensation, and he was soon in a deep, dreamless slumber.
Ten minutes later Tom Truscott and Dick Wilde, part-owners of the 8-ton, centre-board ketchSpanker, came hurrying along the canal bank to the accompaniment of a series of exhortations to, "'Urry up if yer want to get through afore yon schooner locks in," from the energetic lock-keeper.
Both men were young, hefty, full of action, and keen yachtsmen. They had come "round the Land", and were making their way by easy stages to Penarth. Three days previously they had put into Bude through stress of weather, and were about to set sail for Lundy Island and the South Wales coast.
There was little time to be lost. Men on the breakwater were tracking-in a topsail schooner, and, as it was close on high water, the vessel was coming straight into the canal basin. Directly the gates were open there was an opportunity for theSpankerto go out under headsails before the limited expanse was still further impeded by the arrival of the topsail schooner.
Truscott and Wilde were deft hands at their work. They went about it with the minimum of noise. Since the yacht was moored alongside a wall, there were merely ropes to be cast off and headsails hoisted. Getting up the anchor to the accompaniment of the rattling of a winch and the clanking of chain cable did not figure in the operation. Almost as silently as a wraith the ketch glided through the lock, and, with the wind well on the port quarter, stood steadily seaward.
Truscott was at the helm, while his companion, after descending into the cabin and lowering the centre-board, proceeded to set first mizzen and then mainsail.
Half an hour later the north Cornish coast grew dim in the summer haze.
"Thought we'd have found more wind out here," remarked Truscott. "What about setting the topsail?"
"Right-o," assented Wilde. "Ten to one we'll have to douse it before we make Lundy. There's wind about—plenty of it before long."
"All right then," said his companion. "Don't bother about the jack-yarder. Send the jib-headed topsail aloft. She'll carry short for all the wind we're likely to get to-day."
Wilde went for'ard to get the required sail, which was stowed in a bag in one of the fo'c'sle lockers.
"Jehoshaphat!" he ejaculated. "We've a jolly stowaway on board, old man! There's a boy sound asleep in one of the fo'c'sle cots."
"Good job we did lock the cabin, then," rejoined Truscott. "What sort of young blighter is he?"
"A Sea Scout," announced the other.
"A Sea Scout?" snorted Truscott contemptuously. "Never came across one yet who was any good. Sort of glorified beach-combers—useless when by chance they do go to sea. I hope to goodness he doesn't muster his bag in our fo'c'sle. What's to be done with him."
"He's here on board," said Wilde, stating an obvious fact.
"And here he stops," added Truscott grimly. "If he doesn't like it that's his funeral. I'm not putting back to land a rotten stowaway. Get him out of it—sling a bucket of water over him!"
"That's all very well," objected Wilde with a laugh. "But who's going to mop up the fo'c'sle? I know a way."
From one of the cockpit lockers he produced a longmetal fog-horn—a kind of exaggerated trumpet. Going for'ard he lowered the instrument until the horn was within six inches of the sleeping lad's face, then, distending his cheeks, Wilde blew a long, ear-splitting, discordant blast.
Intensified by the confined space the terrific roar awakened Desmond only too effectually. He sat up, caught his head on one of the deck-beams, and subsided with his hands held to his aching forehead.
"Sorry, I am really!" exclaimed the genuinely repentant Wilde, who had never anticipated such a sequel. "I only meant to turn you out. What are you doing here?"
Desmond made no reply. He was a little dazed, deafened, and completely mystified at being rudely awakened to unfamiliar surroundings. He slid out of the cot and sat upon one of the lockers, blinking at the disturber of his slumbers.
"What are you doing here?" repeated Wilde.
"This is the Sea Scouts' yachtSpindrift," declared Desmond. "I——"
"First I heard of it," interrupted the other with a laugh. "This is theSpankerof Dartmouth, for Penarth; and at Penarth you'll be set ashore, unless we drop across some Bude fishing-boats. That isn't likely, as they are generally away down west'ard."
"Then I've made a mistake," said the Patrol Leader.
"First time I've known a Scout to admit that," rejoined Wilde drily. "However, come aft and tell your yarn to my chum."
It was soon apparent to the partners that Desmond had made a genuine blunder. His open narrative carried conviction, and the annoyance that the two men had shown when the stowaway had been discovered quickly evaporated.
"With luck, you'll be with your pals by noon to-morrow," observed Truscott. "We'll send you back by train from Penarth, unless there's a joy-boat running from Cardiff to Ilfracombe. Hello, Wilde old man: wind's heading us."
During the last few minutes the wind had veered through sixteen points of the compass. It had been from the sou'-sou'-east; now it was nor'-nor'-west.
Tending sheets occupied the crew's attention, and the conversation ceased. Desmond, perched upon the weather-rail, wanted to bear a hand. Inactivity bored him. In spite of his injured foot, he knew he could be of use if required, but his natural hesitation to thrust himself forward in the presence of strangers held him to silence.
"There's Lundy," announced Truscott, as a faint blurr appeared through a partial dispersal of the haze.
"Wind's piping up, too," added his chum. "How about handing that topsail? It isn't doing much good close-hauled."
Truscott glanced aloft. The topsail was acting up to its reputation of being the first sail to shake.
"Right-o!" he agreed. "Down with it."
Wilde went for'ard, cast off topsail sheets and halliards, and commenced to haul down.
"Dash it all!" he exclaimed. "The halliard's jammed. I always said that sheave was too small."
"Can you steer?" demanded Truscott abruptly, turning to the Patrol Leader. "Yes? Right-o, here you are."
Desmond found himself in possession of the tiller, while Truscott went for'ard to bear a hand with the stubborn topsail.
It did not take Desmond very long to "get the hang" of the helm. Used to small-boat sailing, he quickly found that it was quite an easy matter to keep a yacht on her course without yawing. Had theSpankerbeen running, it might have been rather difficult; close hauled the ketch almost sailed herself, save for an occasional touch of the helm as she tended to come up into the wind.
"That youngster knows what he's about," remarked Truscott in a low voice. "He won't get her in irons. I'll go aloft and clear the blessed sail."
Truscott was a burly fellow. He went aloft, holding on to the staysail halliards and getting a foothold on the mast-hoops. Gaining the cross-trees, he balancedhimself on the slender galvanized-iron spreader and stretched for the jammed rope.