For the next two days theSpindriftremained at St. Ives, alternately rolling like a barrel or lying well over on the bottom of the harbour, according to the state of the tide. On the first of those two days it would have been sheer madness to attempt to put to sea: the yacht would have been dismasted or sunk before she came abreast of Pendeen. On the second the brief summer gale had moderated. TheSpindriftmight have made the passage round The Land successfully, but Mr. Graham deemed it prudent to wait until the sea calmed down. It looked quiet enough when viewed from the heights above St. Ives, but there were those long Atlantic rollers between Cape Cornwall and Land's End to be taken into account, to say nothing of the strong current setting towards the deadly Brisons.
The greater part of the time was spent ashore. Enthusiastic sailor-lads though they were, the Sea Scouts found that life afloat under these conditionswas neither comfortable nor instructive. Sleeping on board, with the deck at an angle of 45 degrees was bad enough, but when it came to eating and living in a confined space that was rolling monotonously until the yacht's planks were awash, it was too much for the crew to endure.
At length, the glass began to rise slowly, after suffering a relapse that threatened a harder blow. The weather reports stated that a cyclone of considerable violence and with a narrow path had shifted towards the North Sea. Vessels putting in from the west'ard reported calm seas, while on the morning of the third day a grey dawn prognosticated a return of fine weather. On a falling tide, and with less than a foot of water under her keel, theSpindriftslipped the friendly mooring-chain—their blessing in disguise—and stood out bound round The Land. A light nor'-westerly breeze was in her favour, although it was a case of long and short tacks until Zennor Hill was abeam.
"Is that Land's End, sir?" asked Hayes, pointing to a bold promontory on the port bow.
"No," replied the Scoutmaster, "that's Cape Cornwall. It looks to be the most westerly point of England, and its bold appearance rather bears it out. Don't expect too much of Land's End. Viewed from seaward it has rather a disappointing aspect compared with Cape Cornwall."
The latter cape rounded, theSpindriftstood wellout to avoid the Brisons, tall detached rocks connected with the shore by a submerged reef, over which the tide swirls furiously.
Right ahead, a tall lighthouse reared itself from a low-lying ridge of rocks. It was the Longships, one of the beacons lighting the "Chops of the Channel ".
"We don't have to go outside that, sir, do we?" asked Desmond, who was taking his trick at the helm. "The chart shows plenty of water between the Longships and the shore."
"No, inside," replied Mr. Graham. "You'll have to keep on a stern-bearing—keep the highest part of the northern Brison west'ard of the highest part of the southern Brison. That will take you through. There's Land's End, lads."
Before the noted promontory drew abeam, Mr. Graham saw something that caused him certain misgivings. He had wished to round The Land in calm weather. That wish was being satisfied; but with the calm came a sea-fog. Already the high ground above Land's End was being obscured by a pall of fleecy vapour.
To make matters worse the wind died away, leaving theSpindriftrolling sluggishly, with her canvas hanging idly from her swaying yards.
"We're in for a fairly thick fog, Desmond," said the Scoutmaster quietly. "Take a compass bearing of Land's End before it's shut out. Good: now keep herhead on sou'-by-east. Jock, start up the motor. The sooner we get into the English Channel the better."
Five minutes later theSpindriftwas enveloped in the dense, clammy fog. From the cockpit it was impossible to see the bowsprit end, while the headsails, grey and grotesquely distorted, seemed baffling in their size and appearance.
Somewhere astern, the Longships Lighthouse was throwing out its fog-signals—two explosive rockets every five minutes. Faintly, and far ahead, came the hoarse bray of a steamer's syren. Ashore a dog was barking dismally—the noise too close to be appreciated by the crew of the fog-bound yacht; while in the flat calm, the roar of the surf upon the iron-bound coast was an audible reminder of the fate a small craft might expect should she be carried upon that dangerous shore.
It was the Scoutmaster's plan to hold on the present course until the yacht was well clear of the coast; then to shape a course up-Channel until the fog lifted. He was of opinion that it would be far safer to spend a day and a night afloat, if necessary, with plenty of sea-room, than to attempt to find his way into Penzance in a blinding fog, and to risk being swept ashore or being carried upon one of the numerous reefs or detached rocks which abound on the west side of Mount's Bay.
Although theSpindrift'scompass had no deviation card, the Scoutmaster had verified it by taking variousbearings on the run from Bude to St. Ives. He found that the compass was remarkably accurate with the vessel's head pointing between west and sou'-west; but whether there was an error in the compass on an easterly course he had not the slightest idea.
Consequently, he decided to take no undue risks on that score, and when, after an hour's steady progress under motor-power, theSpindriftwas, according to his calculation, four miles south of Land's End, he ordered a course east-by-south.
The Sea Scouts had been caught out in fogs off the Essex coast several times. Then the usual procedure was to stand shorewards and drop anchor in about one fathom at low water, until the fog lifted. In such shallow water there was very little risk of being run down.
But in the present circumstances anchoring was out of the question. All they could do was to carry on with the utmost caution, until a lifting of the pall of vapour gave them a chance of verifying their position.
Although the lads did not realize the gravity of the situation to the same extent as did their Scoutmaster, they felt far from happy. It was an eerie experience, forging ahead at about three knots through the mist. No longer could they hear sound from the shore. The noise of the exhaust from the motor deadened everything, the sharp reports reverberating as the sound was thrown back by the enclosing vault of fog.
Suddenly a loud whistling noise rent the air, its weird shriek outvoicing the roar of the motor.
"Down helm!" shouted Mr. Graham.
Findlay, who had relieved the Patrol Leader at the helm, put the tiller hard over. Even as he did so, a faint light appeared through the fog almost on top of the yacht. Then the crew had a brief glimpse of a large can-buoy, painted in black-and-white vertical stripes, as it swept past them, straining at its moorings in the strong tideway.
It was a narrow squeak. A few feet nearer and theSpindriftwould have crashed violently into the buoy. Even her stout planks and heavy timbers could not have withstood the shock.
Five seconds later the buoy was lost in the mist, but as a parting reminder it emitted another long-drawn whistle.
"It's the Run-something Buoy, sir," said Desmond. "I saw the first three letters painted on the side."
"Runnelstone," said Mr. Graham. "It marks a dangerous rock off the coast. Fortunately, we were outside the buoy. Put her east-sou'-east, Jock."
Mr. Graham realized that there was something wrong. Although he had allowed, as he thought, ample margin, the original course was not sufficient to give the coast a wide enough berth. Either the compass was in error, or else a strong indraught of tide was setting the yachtashore. By steering another point to the south'ard theSpindriftought to be clear of everything.
Hour after hour passed in nervous tension. All the crew kept on deck, straining their eyes needlessly, and listening for the faintest sound. In spite of oilskins, they were wet through. The fog, cold and clammy, seemed to penetrate everything. At one time, the fog-horns and wrens of several craft were distinctly audible. At another a bell clanged dolorously. But for the most part the yacht was in a zone of silence, broken only by the noise of the engine and the sullen splash of the water against her bows.
"Switch off the motor, Jock," said the Scoutmaster. "We haven't any too much petrol, and we may want the engine to help us into port."
"How far are we from Penzance now, sir?" asked Hayes.
"Bother the boy: he does ask awkward questions," thought Mr. Graham. He could not say, for the simple reason that he was out of his course; and to state that fact would be an admission of incompetence as far as his crew were concerned. It might also tend to put them in a state of alarm.
"We are not making for Penzance," he replied. "With the fog hiding everything it would be too risky to close the coast. So we are going to carry on all night, if necessary. With plenty of sea-room and a calm sea there's nothing much to worry about. Now, then. Allhands below for tea. I'll take the helm until Desmond comes on deck to relieve me."
At length, the murky daylight began to fail. Night was approaching. The fog was as thick as ever, notwithstanding a faint westerly breeze that had sprung up.
Already canvas had been hoisted, and theSpindriftwas gliding through the water at about 3 1/2 knots—forcing her way through the dense bank of vapour that, in the gathering darkness, could be felt—actually felt.
For hours not a sound had been heard from without. An uncanny silence was in the air. Even the breeze failed to give its tuneful song as it usually does when it hums through the rigging.
At ten o'clock a large steamer, going at high speed and blaring incessantly with her siren, passed within fifty yards of the littleSpindrift; for a temporary lift in the fog showed her port light like a gigantic blur of fire. So great was the steamer's speed, that her bow wave broke completely over the yacht's weather side, causing her to roll so furiously that Hayes afterwards said it was as if theSpindriftwas standing on her head.
"Not much use blowing our fog-horn," remarked Findlay. "They didn't take the slightest bit of notice."
"There's one good thing: they missed us," said Desmond.
Within the next half-hour half a dozen other craft were heard at varying distances, fortunately not close enough to cause apprehension.
Evidently the yacht was either crossing or converging upon one of the regular "lanes" of shipping; but curiously enough, Mr. Graham failed to detect any fog signals from shore stations. He had listened for the Lizard, and later on, the Eddystone, but in vain. He had to admit that he was completely out of his reckoning, but he made this admission to himself.
"Turn in, lads!" he ordered briskly. "Turn in all standing, except your shoes, in case you're wanted on deck in a hurry."
"How about you, sir?" asked the Patrol Leader. "Can't I take a watch, and let you turn in? I'm not at all sleepy really, sir."
"All right, then," agreed the Scoutmaster, inwardly glad to have company during the night watches. "You can do a trick with me on the understanding that you turn in at dawn. You others, watch below!"
Scoutmaster and Patrol Leader, both clad in oilskins in addition to their pilot jackets, prepared for their long trick. Desmond, supremely confident in his officer's capabilities, had lost that sense of dread which had gripped him in the early stages of the fog. He was rather enjoying the novelty of a night at sea in thick weather.
But not so Mr. Graham. The fog had upset all his calculations. Added to this, the obvious unreliability of the compass had destroyed his sense of direction. The leadline was all but useless. It was but twentyfathoms in length, and at no time during the fog had the crew been able to strike soundings.
It was a long night. At intervals Mr. Graham consulted the luminous dial of his wristlet watch, and was surprised to find how slowly the hours passed. Then there was more trouble with the compass. The light did not burn well, and condensation on the underside of the binnacle glass made it a matter of great difficulty to read the points. It was only by flashing his electric torch directly upon the card that the Scoutmaster was able to shape a course.
Yet he "kept his end up", chatting on various subjects with his youthful companion, the while stifling the ever-present suggestion that theSpindriftwas lost in the fog-enshrouded English Channel.
At last the blackness of the night gave place to a greyish light that indicated dawn. The fog still held and showed no sign of dispersal, while the wind held steadily from the same quarter.
"Daybreak, Desmond!" exclaimed the Scoutmaster, stretching his cramped limbs and yawning. "Down below you go. Turn Findlay out, and get him to make some hot cocoa before you turn in."
Five minutes later Jock thrust a tousled head through the companion and sniffed inquiringly.
"Where are we now, sir?" was the question Mr. Graham expected—and got.
"Still running up-Channel," was the Scoutmaster'sunsatisfactory reply. "Until the fog lifts we must not close the shore."
"I'll give you a spell, sir, directly I've made the cocoa," said Findlay. "We haven't much fresh water left, sir. Only about a gallon."
Left to himself, Mr. Graham threw a used match over the side and watched it drift until it was lost to sight in the fog. By the rate at which it drifted, the Scoutmaster estimated the yacht's speed at three knots. Assuming that that speed had been maintained from the time theSpindriftrounded Land's End, she had already covered a distance of forty miles in thirteen hours—the time the tide was against her being equalized by an equal period when it was in her favour. That meant that she ought to be fifteen or twenty miles east-sou'-east of the Lizard, but Mr. Graham felt none too sure about that.
Presently, Findlay appeared with two cups of steaming cocoa and half a dozen dry biscuits on the lid of a tin.
"I've served out cocoa to the others, sir," he reported.
The Scoutmaster drank his cocoa gratefully, and began to nibble a biscuit. It was only then that he realized how thirsty and hungry he was. He had carried on throughout the night without any desire to eat or drink, and maybe could have held on much longer had not Jock brought the meal on deck.
Then came the almost overpowering desire for sleep. More than once, Findlay, who was as fresh "as paint", caught Mr. Graham nodding his head over the tiller.
"Won't you turn in, sir?" asked the lad. "I'll keep her going and call you if there's anything to report."
Mr. Graham shook his head.
"I'll stick it," he declared. "When the fog lifts I may snatch a few minutes."
But alas for the Scoutmaster's resolution! Five minutes later he awoke with a start as the yacht ran up into the wind, and the slatting of canvas brought the three Sea Scouts hurriedly on deck.
"Take her, Jock," said Mr. Graham wearily, as he handed over the helm. "I must have a spell-o. I'll turn in on the cockpit floor. Kick me if you want me."
"Fog's lifting, sir!"
The Scoutmaster opened his eyes and blinked at the welcome light. The good news seemed too soon to be true, but right ahead the sun was visible—a watery disc looming faintly through the dispersing vapour.
"Nine o'clock!" exclaimed Mr. Graham. "Have I slept all that time?"
"Only four hours, sir," replied Jock. "Nothing's happened, so we let you sleep on."
Stiffly, the Scoutmaster sat up. A grating makes a hard bed, oilskins and greatcoat notwithstanding. Looking over the port coaming of the cockpit he found that the range of vision was limited to a distance of about a hundred yards, but there were indications that matters would improve in that direction. The wind too had increased, and was blowing more to the starboard quarter.
"That's much better, lads!" exclaimed the Scoutmaster. "I hope we've seen the last of the fog. It hung about much longer than usual."
"Where are we, sir?" asked the three Sea Scouts in chorus.
"That's a problem I'll leave you to find out," was the reply. "Get hold of the chart and let each of you pin-prick the position you think we are in. The winner gets a coco-nut when we put into port."
This competition kept the crew busy, as they argued amongst themselves and plied parallel rulers and dividers in an attempt to solve the problem.
The tail-end of the fog cleared fairly rapidly. By ten o'clock the horizon was visible, but land was nowhere in view.
"Shin aloft and see if you can sight land, Hayes," said the Scoutmaster.
Hayes, lithe and active as a kitten, went up to the cross-trees, grasping the main halliards and using the mast-hoops as foot-holds. Arrived at his perch twenty-five feet above the sea, he surveyed the horizon.
"There's land on our port quarter, sir," he reported. "Or it may be clouds," he added dubiously.
"Then that's the high ground behind the Lizard," thought Mr. Graham. "Steer nor'-nor'-east, Desmond," he added aloud, "and we'll make Plymouth Sound in a few hours."
At noon, when the Sea Scouts went to dinner, land was not in sight—not even from the cross-trees. At three in the afternoon, a faint blur to the nor'-westlooked like land. Half an hour later the surmise proved to be correct.
It was a rocky coast, broken by lofty hills, but nowhere could Mr. Graham pick out the triangular-shaped promontory of Rame Head, the western portal to the approaches of Plymouth.
It was land, and that was all to be said about it. Somewhere within a few miles was a harbour. The Scoutmaster had no intention of having another night at sea, if it could possibly be avoided.
Again and again he examined the chart, and consultedThe Channel Pilot, hoping to recognize the coast by means of the illustrations given in the book.
It might be Falmouth, or Fowey, or perhaps Plymouth—that gap in the coastline. He hoped the last, but he was far from feeling confident about it. Instinctively, the crew realized that their Scoutmaster was out of his reckoning. They treated it as a huge joke.
With a pair of binoculars slung round his neck, Desmond went aloft. Scanning the coast-line from his post of vantage he at length solved the knotty problem.
"It's the Start, sir!" he reported confidently. "And I can see Prawle Point, where we semaphored about young Gregory."
"Nonsense!" exclaimed Mr. Graham sharply.
"It is, sir," declared the Patrol Leader.
Telling Desmond to come down, the Scoutmasterwent aloft. Desmond was right. Through the powerful binoculars, the white lighthouse buildings on Start Point and the signal station at Prawle Point were unmistakably clear.
"That settles it," decided Mr. Graham. "We'll make for Dartmouth."
"Dartmouth, sir!" exclaimed Desmond. "I thought we were going to pick up Bedford and Coles at Plymouth?"
"Out of the question," rejoined the Scoutmaster. "We can't beat to wind'ard all that way and retrace our course. We'll wire them to join us at Dartmouth."
About twenty minutes later a topsail schooner, close hauled on the port tack, showed evident intention of crossing theSpindrift'sbows. By the "Rule of the Road at Sea" the latter, running free on the same tack, had to make way for her.
As the ketch passed astern of the schooner, whose name, painted in vivid yellow letters, was theGloria, of Fowey, a short, thick-set man, wearing a reefer suit and a bowler-hat, hailed theSpindrift.
"Ahoy!" he bawled. "Can you heave-to, an' take a lad ashore?"
"What's the game, I wonder," remarked Mr. Graham to his companions. "Another sort of Gregory stunt?"
Apparently the skipper of theGloriaconsidered his request acceded to, for he ran the schooner up intothe wind and backed his top-sail. TheSpindriftalso put her helm down, and hove-to about fifty yards from the schooner's starboard quarter.
"Anything wrong?" queried the Scoutmaster.
"Nothin' to speak of," was the reply. "'E's nephew o' mine, an' his old mother do live at Dartmouth. Us'll pick him up when we loads up at Plymouth for Littlehampton!"
"Right-o," rejoined Mr. Graham. "We'll put him ashore. We'll send our dinghy."
Although the sea was calm, the Scoutmaster decided that it was not worth the risk to run theSpindriftalongside the schooner. Findlay jumped into the dinghy and rowed off, returning with the passenger.
The crew of theSpindriftwere not particularly impressed at the appearance of the newcomer. He was a freckled, red-haired youth of about eighteen, with a loose lip, and greenish eyes that had a strained, worried look. He waved his hand to theGloriaas the schooner filled her top-sails and resumed her course.
The youth was not at all backward at asking questions. He wanted to know all about theSpindriftand her crew, where they came from and where they were bound for; why they weren't running the motor, and when did they expect to make Dartmouth?
On the other hand, he was very communicative when the Sea Scouts questioned him, and was as outspoken as the misjudged Gregory had been reticent.
Choosing the inshore passage inside the Skerries, Mr. Graham suggested that it was time for another meal. Findlay went below to light the stove and prepare the food, and, when he announced that all was ready, the crew and the guest went into the cabin, leaving Hayes at the helm.
"Keep her as she is, Hayes," cautioned Mr. Graham. "I'll be on deck to relieve you long before we open out Dartmouth Harbour."
The Sea Scouts were hungry; so was the stranger. There was food in plenty, but, owing to the shortage of fresh water, there was only one cup of cocoa for each person.
Suddenly, the passenger made a hurried exit into the cock-pit. The Sea Scouts looked at each other and grinned. They had seen similar precipitate rushes to the open air before. Even Mr. Graham raised his eyebrows knowingly.
But the next turn of events completely took the wind out of their sails. Almost before they realized what was taking place, the cabin doors were slammed to and the sliding hatch drawn over. They heard the rasp of the securing hasp, and the sharp click of the key in the padlock.
"Forehatch, quick, you fellows!" exclaimed the Scoutmaster, who, seated at the after end of the cabin, could not make his way into the fo'c'sle as quickly as Findlay and Desmond.Both lads attempted simultaneously to squeeze through the sliding door between the cabin and the fo'c'sle. By the time Jock had given way to the Patrol Leader it was too late. There was a scuffling of feet on deck. The forehatch was shut with a bang, and a marline-spike inserted through the securing-bar. The Scoutmaster and two of the crew were prisoners.
Meanwhile, Hayes was still at the helm. Not until the young ruffian, whom they had befriended, had secured the forehatch did he grasp the situation. It was useless for him to leave the tiller. Without a key, it was impossible for him to open the companion-doors, while to throw back the fore-hatch was out of the question while the red-haired youth was in possession of the deck.
For several minutes the fellow remained for'ard, watching the vibrations of the hatch cover under the the united efforts of the imprisoned crew to burst it open. Satisfied that the metal bar defied their united strength, the red-haired youth came aft, ostentatiously fingering a large clasp knife.
"Look 'ere, kid!" he exclaimed. "Me an' you's goin' for a trip together, friendly-like. S'long's you gives no trouble, well an' good. Any tricks, mind you, an' it'll be the worst for yer. Got that?"
Hayes felt very hot in the throat. He was up against something this time. He racked his brains to know what to say or do. To attempt to try conclusions byforce with this tough-looking fellow seemed out of the question. Hayes was small but sturdy, but he was no match for the huge-limbed, bull-necked youth who had taken charge of things.
"I don't know what you mean," he said. "We're expecting to fall in with another Sea Scout motor-boat off Dartmouth, so I don't see what you can do."
"We ain't goin' to no Dartmouth," declared the youth with a leer. "We're goin' for a run in that there dinghy. Your pals will go for a cruise on their own till someone picks 'em up. They can't come to no 'arm. What's that place over there?"
Hayes shook his head.
"Where's that map of yours I seed you with?" continued the young ruffian. "Chuck it over 'ere."
He studied the chart intently, at the same time taking frequent glances at the helmsman to guard against surprise.
"'Allsands, that's wot it is," he declared. "Now, look 'ere, mate. Throw the yot up in the wind and put that there engine into the dinghy. Can you work it?"
Hayes shook his head again.
"You'll jolly well 'ave to," continued the young pirate. "Look slippy."
Obediently the Sea Scout threw theSpindriftup into the wind and drew the dinghy alongside. His ready brain was evolving a plan. He meant to makea flying leap into the dinghy and push off, leaving the other fellow in possession of the yacht. It was unlikely that the red-haired youth would jump overboard and swim after the dinghy before Hayes had time to ship rowlocks and man the sculls. If he did, a tap over the head with one of the oars would bring him to his senses—or otherwise.
But the Sea Scout reckoned without his host.
"'Ere, 'and me that painter," said the pirate with a grin. "Do you go aft an' fix up that motor. Look sharp, there."
Hayes clamped the outboard motor, and adjusted the controls. As he did so, he noticed that the fellow had not belayed the painter, but was holding it in his hand. If the engine were put suddenly into the reverse, the chances were that he would have to choose between letting go or being dragged overboard.
The engine fired. Quick as thought Hayes raised the tiller, thereby setting the propeller blade at full astern. As the Sea Scout had surmised, the painter tautened suddenly, and the next instant it was jerked out of the red-haired youth's hands.
As soon as the dinghy was sufficient distance astern the triumphant Hayes put the engine ahead, in order to keep within hailing distance of the fellow in possession of theSpindrift, and to deliver an ultimatum.
But Hayes's elation was short-lived. He had forgotten the painter trailing in the water. A jerk andthe engine stopped dead, with half a dozen turns of rope round the propeller.
Shipping the oars, the Sea Scout paddled within five yards of the yacht.
"You're done for," he exclaimed to the furious youth. "I'm going ashoreto summon assistance, if you don't instantly let my chums out of the cabin. The wind's falling light, and the yacht won't get very far before you're caught."
"Don't you crow, you young blighter!" was the reply. "I'm not done yet. See that beach? That's where I'm jolly well goin' to run this 'ere yot ashore and trust to luck. If anythink 'appens to your pals it won't be my fault."
Hayes realized the import of this sinister threat. Even in the light breeze, theSpindriftcould sail much faster than he could row the dinghy, impeded as the latter was by the drag of the useless propeller. And on the desolate beach a heavy swell was breaking, sufficient to smash theSpindriftinto firewood in a few minutes. And how would Mr. Graham and his two chums fare? They looked like being drowned like rats in a trap. And, now he came to think of it, Hayes stood a poor chance of getting ashore in the dinghy, unless there were help at hand to save the little cockleshell from the breakers.
"What is the game, sir?" asked Desmond, after the efforts of the trio to burst open the fore-hatch had to be abandoned as hopeless.
"Can't say, I'm sure," replied Mr. Graham breathlessly. "Let's hope it's a practical joke, but I'm afraid it isn't."
"Do you think it's Greening or Greener, or whatever his name is?" asked Findlay. "Or perhaps it's another Borstal boy escaping from Portland."
"That thought occurred to me," admitted the Scoutmaster, "but there's one flaw in the argument. The skipper of theGloriavouched for him. It might be a case of sudden mental disorder. 'Ssh! He's speaking—listen."
In silence they listened to the almost one-sided conversation between the red-haired youth and Hayes. They heard the outboard motor starting up, and the ominous silence when the painter fouled the propeller. Then followed the cold-blooded threat to run theSpindriftashore.
"It's time we took drastic measures, lads," said Mr. Graham calmly. "Fortunately, Hayes isn't on board the yacht. That's what was tying my hands, as it were."
The Scoutmaster took down his portmanteau from one of the racks, opened it, and fumbled amongst an assortment of articles. Producing a small leather holster, he laid it on the cabin table and withdrew from it a short-barrelled automatic taking Service ammunition. "It's rather an un-Scouting article," remarked Mr. Graham, as he proceeded to fill the magazine. "I had doubts about bringing it, but I think the circumstances warrant it."
"Are you going to shoot him, sir?" asked Findlay, rather awe-struck.
"Not if I can help it," was the decided assurance. "We'll have to rush the fellow. Remember, he has a knife."
Desmond armed himself with a knotted towel in which was wrapped up a large iron shackle. Findlay laid hold of a rolling-pin from the galley. It was the first time that it had been used for any purpose since the Sea Scouts took over the yacht, and in Jock's hand it looked a formidable weapon.
TheSpindriftwas now heeling to starboard—an indication that the young rascal on deck had put the helm up and was getting way on the yacht.
"Stand by!" whispered Mr. Graham.
Raising the automatic he placed the muzzle against the cabin door and pressed the trigger. A deafening report shook the confined space. The air reeked of burnt cordite.
Another shot followed in quick succession, then, hastily setting the safety-catch of the pistol, the Scoutmaster thrust his shoulder against the door.
Already the two bullets had done their work. The hasp had been torn from the teak door, and it required very little effort to clear a way.
Into the cockpit rushed the Scoutmaster, the two Scouts hard on his heels.
Alarmed by the shots, the miscreant had run for'ard, evidently under the totally wrong impression that they were meant for him. Then, grasping the lever of the winch, he stood on the defensive, looking more like an infuriated beast than a human being.
"Drop that and give in at once!" said Mr. Graham sternly, pointing the muzzle of the automatic at the fellow's stomach. The safety-catch was still set, as the Scoutmaster knew, but he was also aware that a man, who will face the muzzle of a pistol without outward signs of fear, will begin to quiver and quake when the weapon is pointed at the buckle of his belt.
The boy dropped the lever and began to raise both hands. Desmond and Findlay ran for'ard to secure him, but with a yelp of rage the hardened youngster leapt overboard.
He reappeared half a dozen yards astern, waving his hands and yelling until he dipped for the second time. To all on board it was evident that he was unable to swim. TheSpindrift, although running up into the wind, was still carrying a lot of way. Hayes in the dinghy was a cable's length astern, rowing strongly, but making slow progress owing to the drag of the outboard motor's propeller.
The Scoutmaster picked up a life-buoy and threw it to the drowning youth. So careful was he to avoid hitting the lad with the buoy, that it fell short.
Simultaneously, there were two splashes. Without waiting even to kick off their shoes, Desmond and Findlay had both "taken to the ditch" and were swimming strongly to the aid of the lad in distress.
It was an unwise and unnecessary step for both to dive overboard. One would have been sufficient to make for the buoy and push it within reach of the drowning youth. It also left Mr. Graham to manage the yacht single-handed, and, although he was quite capable of so doing, it was a tough proposition to go about, huff, and pick three persons out of the water.
Putting the helm up, the Scoutmaster soon had the yacht under control. Already she had "eaten her way" well to wind'ard of the lad in distress. To go about would mean placing a still greater distance between them. So Mr. Graham still kept the helm hard up, at the same time checking the main-sheet until theSpindriftgybed. Then running to lee'ard he close hauled and lulled up.
By this time, Desmond had reached the life-buoy. Findlay, a quicker and more powerful swimmer, made no effort to get hold of the life-buoy. He saw that the object of his efforts was pretty far gone. Incautiously, Jock made a grab at him, and the next instant the Sea Scout was seized round the neck by the brawny arms of the frenzied youth.
Both went under at once. Findlay, although he had not time to take a deep breath, fortunately retained his presence of mind, and, keeping his arms down and using his feet vigorously, brought himself and the drowning youth to the surface.
But only for a brief instant. The other fellow, gripping like a bear, strove to raise himself out of the water, with the result that Jock went under again. Desmond, marking time with the buoy, hesitated to approach lest he should be entangled in the meshes of this human net. Deciding that something must be done—and that quickly—to avoid a double fatality, the Patrol Leader swam behind the struggling youth, raised the life-buoy, and brought it down heavily upon the latter's head.
Desmond went under in the process, but when he broke surface, the desired result had been obtained. Jock was treading water, holding up the now unconscious lad.
image: IMAGENAME1
image: IMAGENAME1
[Illustration: "DROP THAT, AND GIVE IN AT ONCE!"Page206]
[Illustration: "DROP THAT, AND GIVE IN AT ONCE!"Page206]
"Thanks!" he exclaimed breathlessly, as Desmond pushed the life-buoy to within reach. He could say no more, as he was spluttering and coughing up copious quantities of salt water.
"Stand by!" shouted Mr. Graham.
The two Sea Scouts looked round. TheSpindriftwas luffing up.
Ably managed, she lost way within an oar's length of the trio in the "ditch". Seizing a rope thrown to him, Desmond made a bowline round the unconscious youth. Then, telling Jock to clamber on board—it was about as much as he could do, and then only by means of the bobstay—the Patrol Leader remained in the water until the rescued lad could be hauled into safety.
It was a tough task. Mr. Graham had to hook on the runners before the heavy burden could be hoisted on deck. Then Desmond came aboard, after having placed the life-buoy on deck.
"You two go below and change," said the Scoutmaster. "I'll see to this young gentleman. And Hayes is almost alongside. He'll give a hand."
Desmond and Findlay were not long in shifting into dry kit. When they came on deck they found theSpindrifthove-to and the rest of the crew engaged in first aid work.
"Take the helm, Jock," said the Scoutmaster. "I'll give you the course until we arrive off the entrance to the harbour. The sooner the better."
"Did I hit him too hard, sir?" asked Desmond anxiously. "I simply had to do it."
"That's nothing," replied the Scoutmaster reassuringly. "A tap on the head wouldn't hurt his thick skull. It's the quantity of the English Channel down his throat that's causing the trouble."
The mysterious youth did not recover consciousness until theSpindriftentered Dartmouth Harbour, and tied up alongside the quay abreast of the boat-pond.
Hayes was dispatched to find a policeman. He hadn't far to go, and the guardian of the Law came on board, a crowd of curious sightseers lining the quay-side.
The policeman produced his notebook.
"Name, please, sir," he began, "and the name of the yacht."
"Don't you think you'd better get an ambulance, or a doctor?" suggested Mr. Graham, when he had given the information that had little to do with the case.
"What's the name an' address of this person?" continued the unruffled constable.
"That I can't tell you," replied the Scoutmaster.
"Why not?"
"Because I don't know it myself. Get the boy taken ashore and given medical assistance. Then, and only then, I'll give you all the information I know. It will be interesting, constable, very."
The policeman went away, returning in ten minutes with a couple of ambulance men. The patient wastaken ashore and carried off "to an unknown destination", as far as the crew of theSpindriftwere concerned. Mr. Graham yawned. The rest of the crew yawned too.
"Dog tired, the lot of us," remarked the Scoutmaster. "Fortunately we're in a snug berth, although rather open to the public eye. Now, lads, supper and early to bed. We'll sleep the clock round!"
The meal was just fairly under way when the yacht rocked under the weight of a heavy foot on deck. It was the policeman thirsting to give and receive information.
"Lively young limb you've brought in here, sir," he began, producing his inevitable notebook. "We've got him all right this time. Broke out of Portland a week or ten days ago."
"Really?" remarked Mr. Graham. "I'm not surprised. But are you really sure? On our way down Channel last week—not in this boat—we rescued a lad who was arrested at Plymouth as the Borstal boy at large."
"Answerin' to the name o' Gregory, sir?"
"Yes," replied the Scoutmaster. "Do you know him?"
"A lad from Abbotsbury. His people are puttin' in a claim for compensation for illegal arrest. But we ain't made a mistake this time. Here you are, sir; look at this photo."
There certainly was a striking resemblance to the young ruffian. Now he was properly laid by the heels.
"How came you to find him, sir?" asked the policeman.
Mr. Graham had already made up his mind how much to tell and what to keep back. He merely said that he had been put on board from the schoonerGloriafrom Fowey, and that some time later he had fallen overboard and had been gallantly rescued by Desmond and Findlay. The story of the rascal's escapade he kept dark. The crew of theSpindriftwould be no better for the telling of it, and they did not want to waste time by having to give evidence in case other proceedings were instituted. The young rogue would be punished severely for his spell of liberty; he had had a very narrow escape from drowning; and these two cases could be written down as a "set off" to the attempt to seize the yacht. As it turned out, the affair was not serious. Beyond the shattered cabin-doors there was no harm done.
At length the policeman departed and the crew sat down to finish their interrupted supper. This they did. By common consent the ritual of washing up after the meal was placed in abeyance. They were just longing to turn in.
But the fates were against them.
"Yot ahoy!" bawled a voice from the quayside. "You can't a-stop here. 'Arbour Master's orders.You're to shift your berth across t'other side abreast yon coal-hulk."
There was no refusal. The mandate had to be obeyed. The weary crew turned out, started up the ready engine, and motored across to the Kingswear side. Here they anchored, and hurrying below were soon deep in dreamless slumber.