The Project Gutenberg eBook ofSea Scouts up-Channel

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofSea Scouts up-ChannelThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Sea Scouts up-ChannelAuthor: Percy F. WestermanIllustrator: C. M. PaddayRelease date: November 24, 2018 [eBook #58336]Most recently updated: January 27, 2019Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by R.G.P.M. van Giesen*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SEA SCOUTS UP-CHANNEL ***

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: Sea Scouts up-ChannelAuthor: Percy F. WestermanIllustrator: C. M. PaddayRelease date: November 24, 2018 [eBook #58336]Most recently updated: January 27, 2019Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by R.G.P.M. van Giesen

Title: Sea Scouts up-Channel

Author: Percy F. WestermanIllustrator: C. M. Padday

Author: Percy F. Westerman

Illustrator: C. M. Padday

Release date: November 24, 2018 [eBook #58336]Most recently updated: January 27, 2019

Language: English

Credits: Produced by R.G.P.M. van Giesen

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SEA SCOUTS UP-CHANNEL ***

[Illustration: cover art]

Sea Scouts up-Channel

BLACKIE & SON LIMITED50 Old Bailey, LONDON17 Stanhope Street,GlasgowBLACKIE & SON (INDIA) LIMITEDWarwick House, Fort Street,BombayBLACKIE & SON (CANADA) LIMITED1118 Bay Street,Toronto

image: IMAGENAME1

[Illustration: "WANT A TOW INTO WEYMOUTH?"Frontispiece,Page242]

Sea Scouts up-ChannelBYPERCY F. WESTERMANAuthor of "The Third Officer", "The Salving of the Fusi Yama""Sea Scouts All", &c.

Illustrated by C. M. Padday, R.O.I.

BLACKIE & SON LIMITEDLONDON AND GLASGOW

Printed in Great Britain byBlackie & Son, Limited, Glasgow

Illustrations"Want a tow into Weymouth?"Frontispiece"All clear!" he announced, exhausted and triumphantBoth men tumbled on the cabin-top"Drop that and give in at once!"

Sea Scouts up-Channel

"It's going to be a dirty night," remarked Mr. Graham, Scoutmaster of the 9th Southend-on-Sea Sea Scouts. "Not very promising for the first day of our holidays."

"You are right, sir," agreed Desmond, the Patrol Leader. "We are safe enough here; and, after all, the weather isn't everything. We're jolly lucky to be afloat."

"Although we've nothing much to go to sea in," added Pat Hayes. "This part of the coast is very different from Southend, isn't it, sir?"

"I can hardly believe we're miles from home," chimed in Ted Coles, the tenderfoot or "greenhorn" of the troop. "My word, that shakes the old boat up!" he exclaimed, as a vicious blast of wind boredown upon the side of the lofty superstructure of their temporary floating home.

It was a stroke of good luck, or perhaps good management on the part of Scoutmaster Graham, that five members of the 9th Southend Sea Scouts found themselves in the Isle of Wight.

They had that afternoon "taken over" the guardship of the 6th Wootton Bridge Sea Scouts, the latter having accepted an invitation to take part in a "jamboree" on the other side of the Channel at a place called St. Valerie-en-Caux.

Before the Wootton Bridge lads left, their Scoutmaster, Mr. Tweedie, wrote to Mr. Graham—they had been brother officers in the R.N.V.R. in that distant period "when there had been a war on"—offering to lend him the Wootton Bridge Sea Scouts' guardship for the latter end of July and the greater part of the month of August.

Scoutmaster Graham put the proposition before the lads. They simply jumped at it. A holiday in the Isle of Wight was far different from knocking around the Essex and Suffolk creeks in their open whaler—an old tub that could not be trusted to go anywhere under canvas unless the wind was abaft the beam—and rowing, although good exercise, is apt to become a tedious business, especially when it comes to propelling an unwieldy eighteen-foot ex-Service boat for miles and miles.

So the offer was gladly accepted. Mr. Graham, Frank Bedford, Pat Hayes, and Ted Coles had taken train to Portsmouth; Patrol Leader David Desmond and Second Jock Findlay had done the ninety odd miles journey on their trusty push-bikes. Taking two days over the distance, they were awaiting the train-party at Portsmouth Harbour Station when the Scoutmaster and his three young companions arrived with their somewhat generous amount of luggage.

It was a matter for mutual regret that some members of the troop were unable to be present. The fact remained that out of three patrols only five Sea Scouts were able to accept the Wootton Bridge lads' invitation, although it was just possible that others might do so later on.

From Portsmouth the elated Sea Scouts crossed by steamer to Ryde, their one disappointment being that they were unable to have a glimpse of Nelson'sVictory, but the staunch old three-decker was in dry dock, undergoing a thorough overhauling to repair the ravages of Father Time.

At Ryde they commenced their four-mile tramp to Wootton Bridge, their gear being piled upon a trek-cart lent them by some obliging brother-Scouts.

It was late in the afternoon when the Sea Scouts had their first view of Wootton Creek, and rather unfortunately it was nearly low water. From the top of the hill they could see a very narrow stream meandering between banks of mud. On either side the ground rose steeply, the left bank being thickly wooded. Away to their right the Sea Scouts could discern the creek winding towards the open waters of Spithead, while in the distance the flat coast of Hampshire cut the skyline.

"Where's the guardship, sir?" asked Hayes.

"There she is, unless I'm greatly mistaken," replied the Scoutmaster, pointing to a long, low, black hull with a white superstructure.

"She's not very big," remarked Ted Coles, the greenhorn, dubiously. "And the creek's little larger than a ditch."

"Don't look a gift-horse in the mouth," said Desmond. "Wait till we're aboard. Things look a bit deceptive from a height. Come on, you fellows, it's down hill all the rest of the way."

At length the Sea Scouts and their trek-cart came to a halt outside an old mill. Here the main road from Ryde to Newport, the "capital" of the Isle of Wight, crosses the creek by means of a brick bridge. Close to it is the village that takes its name from the bridge.

"Now to find out Mr. Johnson who has the key of the guardship," announced the Scoutmaster; but, before he could take further steps in the matter, an old, grey-bearded man, wearing a blue reefer suit and a peaked cap, came out of a cottage near by.

"You'rn the gen'l'man what's a friend to Mr. Tweedie's, I take it, sir?" he inquired. "Johnson's my name, master mariner for nigh on thirty-five year. I've got the keys, sir. Here they be, an' a list of where everything be to. If you'rn wantin' any help, come to Cap'n Albert Johnson, being me."

"Thanks awfully, Captain," replied the Scoutmaster. "I suppose there's a dinghy to get off to the guardship with?"

"Ay, ay, there's a nice li'l boat belonging to our Sea Scouts. She'm alongside yon steps, but there ain't enough water just now, seein' as 'ow the tide's out."

"In that case we must wait," rejoined Mr. Graham. "How long will it be before the dinghy is afloat?" Captain Johnson gave a glance at the mud-banks.

"Matter of an hour, mebbe an hour an' a half," he replied. "Say seven o'clock an' you'll be on the safe side."

"In that case," said Mr. Graham cheerfully, "we may as well get in a few provisions. Unship that gear, Desmond. The trek-cart will come in handy for the grub. Hayes, you'd better mount guard over our gear. I suppose there's fresh water aboard, Captain Johnson?"

"Ay, ay, sir," was the reply, "the lads filled up her tank just afore they went 'foreign'. There'll be a couple o' hundred gallon in a iron tank amidships.You'll find the tap in the galley, but don't use the pump. That be for salt water."

Leaving Hayes to contemplate the narrow trickle of water between the mud-flats, the Scoutmaster and the rest of the Sea Scouts set off on their task of buying provisions. By the time they returned with their well-laden trek-cart the tide had commenced to flow, and the water was already lapping the keel of the dinghy.

Ten minutes later the little craft was pushed off through the soft mud and taken alongside the bridge. The stores and baggage were passed aboard, the trek-cart put into a shed at the mill, and the Sea Scouts set off for their temporary floating home.

"She's a whopping craft, after all!" exclaimed Ted Coles, as the dinghy drew near the guardship.

Viewed from without, the guardship turned out to be an old Thames barge, about eighty feet over all and from fifteen to eighteen feet beam. The whole of her two holds had been built upon, with a double-decked structure extending the whole width of the ship except for about fifteen feet amidships, where the deck-houses came to the outer edge of the original coamings, thus leaving two sheltered portions of the deck. Aft, the upper deck terminated twelve feet for'ard of the lower deck, the roof of the latter boasting of a large teak skylight. There were several large glass windows, while a short lowermast and light topmastgave a finishing touch to the Wootton Bridge Sea Scouts' guardship.

Making the dinghy fast fore and aft to a couple of booms, the Sea Scouts followed their Scoutmaster on deck, and waited with ill-concealed eagerness while he unlocked the door leading to the upper deck.

They found themselves in what was styled the chartroom, a space about six feet in length and occupying the extreme width of the ship. In it were a compass, a flashing signal lamp, a signal locker with a complete set of flags, hand semaphore flags, a couple of telescopes, and on the bulkhead two large charts of Spithead and the Solent.

On each side were windows commanding a view abeam and ahead, while right aft another window, long and narrow, gave an uninterrupted view of the entrance to the creek and the sea beyond.

Leading out of the chartroom was a wide, doorless opening, communicating with the club-room and two sleeping-cabins on the upper deck; while a steep brass-treaded ladder with brass hand-rails gave access below.

On the lower deck were the dining-saloon, kitchen, and two more sleeping-cabins, with nearly seven feet headroom throughout, while right for'ard was a low-roofed storeroom. Abaft the dining-saloon, and gained by means of a small sliding door, was the bathroom, which in the days when the guardship was a sea-goingThames barge had served as the skipper's cabin. "Jolly fine, isn't it, sir!" exclaimed Desmond. "And did the Wootton Bridge Sea Scouts do all the work of converting her?"

"Every bit, I think," replied Mr. Graham. "I remember Mr. Tweedie writing to me about it. They cemented the floors and the space between the sides and the lining with ferro-concrete—nearly forty tons of it—before they commenced the woodwork. Altogether it took them seven months to finish the work."

"It must have cost them something," observed Frank Bedford.

"About a couple of hundred pounds," replied the Scoutmaster. "They raised every penny of it by themselves—concerts and that sort of thing—without cadging a single halfpenny. Well, come on. How about grub? Then we'll go to general quarters, stow gear, and sling our hammocks."

The first meal on board was a great success, if Jock Findlay's initial blunder was not taken into consideration. Jock was told off as cook for the day, and, apparently not having heard Captain Johnson's instructions, had made the cocoa with boiling sea-water.

It was getting on for nine o'clock when the conversation related in the beginning of this chapter took place. Already the sun had dipped behind the tree-clad hills on the western side of the creek. Away to the nor'ard the sky was overcast, while an on-shore breeze blewwith steadily increasing strength up the tidal estuary. The evening was cold—decidedly chilly for July—while occasional scuds of rain presaged a dirty night.

Presently Patrol Leader Desmond, who had been examining the entrance to the creek with one of the telescopes, gave an exclamation of surprise.

"What is it, Desmond?" inquired Jock, who, with the Patrol Leader, was standing in the chartroom. "An SOS?"

"Of sorts," rejoined his chum. "There's a small craft out there flying a signal—I'm not sure, but I think it's the NC."

Findlay snatched up the second telescope, threw open one of the windows, and levelled the glass in the direction Desmond had indicated. Before he could focus the instrument, the object lens was blurred with rain.

"Dash it all!" he exclaimed, and proceeded to clean the glass.

Before Findlay could resume his investigations, Desmond had put down his telescope. Hurrying to the head of the ladder he roused his chums by shouting:

"On deck there, you fellows. There's a vessel in distress off the mouth of the creek."

At the hail, Mr. Graham and the rest of the Sea Scouts swarmed up the ladder into the chartroom.

Patrol Leader Desmond had read the signal correctly, in spite of the fact that the light was fading and that the flags, owing to the direction of the wind, were nearly end on and blowing out almost as stiff as a board.

Taking the telescope, the Scoutmaster verified his Patrol Leader's statement. There was the white and blue chequered flag surmounting a white pennant with a red ball in it, signifying: "In distress; need immediate assistance ".

"How long has this been flying?" inquired Mr. Graham.

"Not long, sir. Less than a couple of minutes," replied Desmond. "She's been at anchor there for the last hour. I was wondering what she was doing in the open."

"Waiting for enough water to get in," hazarded the Scoutmaster. "It's not far from high tide now. Comealong, Desmond and Findlay, we'll see what's wrong. No, not you others; three of us will be enough for this job. Got your first-aid outfit, Jock? I wouldn't mind betting that's what will be wanted."

With mixed feelings, Bedford, Hayes, and the Tenderfoot watched their Scoutmaster and their two chums push off in the dinghy. They were disappointed that they were compelled to remain on board as passive spectators, but they knew that in a choppy sea the dinghy stood a better chance of reaching the craft in distress than if she were deeply laden with six fairly hefty individuals. So, with a cheer of encouragement, they bade their chums good luck and remained watching the slow progress of the dinghy until she was lost to sight in the rapidly gathering darkness.

Jock Findlay, a big-limbed, deep-chested lad of sixteen, pulled bow; Mr. Graham was at the stroke oar; Desmond steered. Already the Patrol Leader had made good use of his eyes during his comparatively short experience of Wootton Creek. By the aid of the chart he had studied the somewhat intricate entrance, verifying his facts by observing through the telescope the actual position of the "booms" or mark-posts. Thus he knew that the black-and-white chequered posts were on the port side of the approach channel and that those painted all black were to starboard.

"There's a coast-guard station on our starboardhand, sir," remarked the Patrol Leader. "It's rather strange they haven't turned out."

"I know," replied Mr. Graham shortly. He was pulling strongly and was disinclined to speak more than was absolutely necessary. He knew that it would be a tough struggle before the dinghy arrived alongside the disabled or distressed craft.

A bend in the creek brought the dinghy abreast of the little hamlet of Fishbourne. The boat was now dead in the eye of the wind, and, although it was nearly high water, there was still a considerable tide setting in. These conditions made the rowers' task a hard one, but it had one advantage: with the wind and tide in the same direction the waves were not so short and steep as they might be were the natural forces acting in opposite ways.

The Sea Scouts had already passed a line of small yachts anchored in the lower reaches of the creek. Several, doubtless belonging to the place, were without anyone on board; others showed gleams of yellow light through their scuttles and skylights. Their owners were comfortably sheltering in their snug cabins, thankful that on such a dirty night they were in a secure anchorage.

On the gravel beach at Fishbourne were several pleasure boats hauled up. The boatmen, in view of the rain, had decided early that it was of no use staying there to look for customers, and they had gone home.

The Sea Scouts' dinghy was barely a hundred yards below the coast-guard station when an oilskin-clad man wearing a sou'wester appeared from the look-out hut. He was obviously puzzled to see a little open boat making seaward on a night like this. Had it been light enough he might have spotted the craft flying the distress signal; but now it was too dark to discern her, and for some unknown reason she failed to display a riding-light.

So both the boatmen and the coast-guards had missed a chance of earning salvage.

"Where is she?" exclaimed Findlay breathlessly, turning his head and shading his eyes with one hand while he pulled with the other.

"I can just make her out," shouted Desmond in reply. "Ough!" ejaculated the bowman, as a shower of spray hit him on the back and a cold stream of salt water trickled down his head. "We look like getting wet shirts before this job's done."

It was soon evident that the task the Sea Scouts had undertaken was not only a strenuous one. It was a dangerous one; but the mute appeal for aid was sufficient. Having set out upon an undertaking they meant to see it through.

Already the water was sluicing over the bottom-boards, as the tubby little dinghy rose and fell in the vicious seas. Desmond, still keeping his eyes fixed upon a faint object that he rightly supposed to bethe craft in distress, groped and found the baler. Steering with one hand he began baling for all he was worth. Even then the water seemed to be gaining as the tops of the white crested waves slopped in over the bows.

The Scoutmaster and Jock Findlay were beginning to feel the terrific strain. Used as they were to rowing, they stuck it grimly, but even their horny hands were blistering, while their muscles ached and their breath came in short, jerky gasps. Nor could Desmond relieve his chum at the oar, without an almost certain chance of capsizing the dinghy, while even the slightest respite would result in the boat being carried shorewards.

The outermost beacon appeared to glide slowly past the labouring boat. Here the waves were dangerously steep, for the tide was setting strongly to the west'ard, resulting in a seething cross-sea.

"Nearly there!" bawled Desmond encouragingly, raising his voice to make it audible above the noise of the wind and waves.

The yacht—for such she proved to be—was now only about a hundred yards away, as she rose and plunged to the waves, but it took Mr. Graham and Findlay a good ten minutes of desperate pulling to cover the comparatively short distance.

There was no need for the Patrol Leader to give the customary order: "Way 'nough". He knew thathis companions would have to row until the dinghy was within oar's-length of the yacht. And then Desmond would be faced by the difficulty of bringing the dinghy alongside the heaving, pitching hull, as the yacht strained at her chain cable.

The result of a false move on the helmsman's part would be that the boat would miss her objective altogether and drift yards lee'ard, or else would be crushed like an egg-shell as the larger craft rolled towards her.

"Ahoy!" shouted Desmond.

"Ahoy!" came a muffled reply. "Come aboard."

"Easier said than done," thought Mr. Graham. "Why doesn't the fellow come on deck to take our painter?"

Awaiting his opportunity, Findlay, with the slack of the painter over his left arm, sprang upon the deck of the yacht, while Mr. Graham fended off. Desmond followed, and finally the Scoutmaster leapt on board, steadying himself by the shrouds. The dinghy, left to its own devices to a certain extent, drifted rapidly astern, until she brought up with a jerk that almost wrenched the painter out of Findlay's hands.

"Below there!" hailed the Scoutmaster again, as he peered down the companion-way in a vain attempt to see what was taking place in the unlighted cabin.

"Come on down," replied a somewhat faint and quavery voice. "Sorry I can't get you a light."

"That's easily remedied," declared Mr. Graham, as he switched on his electric torch. "What's the trouble?"

With Desmond and Findlay close at his heels the Scoutmaster descended the slippery, brass-treaded ladder leading to the yacht's saloon. There on one of the bunks sat, or rather reclined, a man of about fifty years of age. His face looked grey and drawn. He was supporting his right arm with his left, the sweater-sleeve of which looked ominously lumpy just above the wrist, while a dark stain was showing on the woolly garment.

"Fracture, eh?" inquired the Scoutmaster.

"Double fracture, to be precise," replied the owner of the yacht. "You're Sea Scouts, I see? Thought at first you were the coast-guards."

"Sort of substitute, you know," rejoined Mr. Graham. "Now let's see what the trouble is," he added briskly.

Jock Findlay was ready with his first-aid outfit, Desmond lit the cabin-lamp, but the erratic motion of the yacht so affected it in spite of its being gimballed, that the confined space was poorly illuminated.

With a pair of sharp scissors the sufferer's sweater and singlet sleeves were ripped open, and the arm exposed to view. It was not a pleasant sight, for in two places the ends of fractured bones had forced themselves against the skin. In addition, there was an abrasion that was bleeding freely."'Fraid it will give you gip," said Mr. Graham apologetically, as he prepared, with the assistance of his young companions, to set the broken limb. "I'll have to grin and bear it," replied the injured man stoically. "But before you start--in case I make a fool of myself, you know--can you take my yacht into Wootton Creek?"

"We'll try," replied the Scoutmaster.

"You know the way in?" inquired the owner anxiously.

"Yes," replied Mr. Graham briefly. Already he knew enough of the creek to justify the assertion.

"Thanks awfully," was the rejoinder. "And can you phone to my wife, Mrs. Collinson? She's staying at the Solent Hotel, Ryde. Tell her I'm all right, or at any rate reassure her that there's nothing much the matter. Good! Now, I'm ready."

It was not the complicated nature of the injury but the awkwardness of the impromptu surgery that was the difficulty. The motion of the yacht was now so violent that the Sea Scouts had great trouble to maintain their balance, let alone to support and hold the injured man, while Mr. Graham placed the limb in two well-padded splints.

But Mr. Collinson did not "grin and bear it ". Long before the first-aid process was completed he was in a dead faint.

"Just as well," commented the Scoutmaster, "onlyit will mean telling off one hand to prevent his rolling off the bunk. You stay here, Jock; Desmond and I will get the yacht in. She'll do it easily under foresail only, I think. There's no immediate hurry. We'll have to overhaul the gear before we get the anchor up. It's no use monkeying about with sheets and halliards on a strange craft in the dark after we are under way."

Leaving Findlay in charge of the patient, the Scoutmaster and Desmond went on deck. For a few moments, coming from the lighted cabin, they could see nothing. By degrees their eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. They could discern the high ground on either side of the entrance, but the beacons marking the channel were invisible. All around there was a welter of foaming water.

"We're dragging, sir!" exclaimed the Patrol Leader.

"By Jove, we are!" agreed Mr. Graham, abandoning his intention of overhauling the ropes. "Stand by at the helm, Desmond. I'll get the anchor up and set the staysail. She ought to draw clear."

Making his way for'ard the Scoutmaster knelt on the heaving fore-deck while he fumbled for the gasket securing the staysail. In this position he was often thigh deep in water, as the yacht dipped her lean bows into the angry crests. It was now blowing half a gale, and the yacht was perilously close to a lee shore.

To his relief, Mr. Graham found the staysail halliardwithout difficulty. A trial hoist showed that the sail could be set without risk of fouling anything.

The next task was to weigh the anchor. In ordinary circumstances this operation would be performed by means of a small capstan—an easy yet slow process. Long before the anchor could be brought a-peak the yacht would drag and go aground. Slipping the cable was out of the question, as the Scoutmaster did not know whether the end of the chain was shackled or not, and there was no time to grope about in a strange fo'c'sle, struggling with a possibly refractory shackle.

"Desmond!" he shouted.

The Patrol Leader, relinquishing the as yet unwanted tiller, made his way for'ard, clutching at runners, shrouds, and mast as he did so. Without these supports he would almost certainly have lost his footing, so erratic and violent was the motion of the yacht.

"Bear a hand!" exclaimed Mr. Graham breathlessly, pointing to the cable.

Desmond understood. In order to save time the anchor-cable was to be hauled in by hand instead of by means of the winch.

It was a tough task, especially at first, but gradually the iron chain came home, until a sudden and considerable relaxation of the strain announced that the anchor was off the bottom, or in nautical terms "up and down".

The Patrol Leader subsided ungracefully upon the mainmast spider band, while the Scoutmaster sat heavily upon the brass-capped bitts. It was painful for both, but there was no time to waste in vain complaints.

"Take the helm—quick!" shouted Mr. Graham, regaining his feet and hauling in the staysail halliards.

Desmond hurried aft, secured a grip on the tiller, and waited.

For some moments the staysail slatted violently in the wind. The yacht began to gather stern-way and showed a tendency to fall off on the starboard tack. Exerting all his strength the Scoutmaster gripped the stiff canvas (his finger-nails were tender for a week afterwards) and held the sail aback.

Even then the yacht hesitated. There was a distinct shock, different from the jars and jerks caused by the action of the waves. The vessel had touched bottom. Her keel had struck what felt like a shingle bank.

Then, to Mr. Graham's relief, she heeled and drew clear of the bottom.

But the danger of striking a lee shore was not yet over. The yacht under staysail alone could not "claw off ". She had to be sailed free, but not too free, until she rounded the spit of mud at the starboard side of the entrance to the creek. The question was whether Desmond could strike the happy medium and keepher on the only possible safe course, which was now against a strong west-going tide.

Checking the lee staysail sheet, Mr. Graham came aft. Then, belaying the sheet, he glanced at the bellying canvas which was just discernible against the loom of the land.

That glance told him that the youthful helmsman knew his job.

"Couldn't do better myself," thought the Scoutmaster.

He made no attempt to take the tiller. It was one of his principles in Sea Scouting never to interfere when one of the lads was doing his work properly. And Desmond knew it was "up to him" to keep the yacht on her course; he also knew that he was doing the right thing, otherwise his Scoutmaster would have "butted in".

Suddenly, through the shower of spray flying over the yacht's bows, Desmond caught sight of the outermost of the beacons, barely twenty yards to lee'ard.

It was now a case of "up helm and run for it". The yacht answered readily to the action of the rudder, and in a few seconds she was scudding before the wind with slacked-off sheets and almost on an even keel.

"See the next mark?" shouted the Scoutmaster "On your port bow?"

"Ay, ay, sir," was the confident response.

"All right below, there?" inquired Mr. Graham, calling down the companion-way.

"Quite, sir," replied Jock, who up to the present had all his work cut out to keep the injured man from further harm. "He's not come to yet, sir."

Certainly Jock had seen little or nothing of the fun. By the noises on deck as the cable came home he knew that his comrades were weighing anchor. The shock too, when the yacht grounded on her keel, was far more pronounced to him than it had been to the others on deck. Then, by the more or less steady heel to starboard, he was aware that the little craft was under way. And now, by reason of the yacht running in comparatively calm water, he knew that she was within the entrance to the creek.

Gybing abreast of the coast-guard station the yacht flew up stream, passed the line of anchored craft, until she was almost becalmed under the high, well-wooded ground to starboard.

"We've got her in, sir," remarked Desmond. "Now what are we going to do?"

That was precisely what Mr. Graham was thinking about. The obvious thing to do was to get medical aid for the injured man. In his present state it was far too risky to attempt to land him in the dinghy, and, since he could not be taken to the doctor, the inference was that the doctor must be brought to him. Then, again, was the question: where could thepatient be placed? The narrow, ill-lighted cabin was not at all suitable, with its awkward bunks and headroom of less than six feet under the beams. The best thing to do in these circumstances was to tranship the injured man from the yacht to the guardship.

"I'll take her for a minute," said Mr. Graham, relieving Desmond at the helm. "Call up the others and tell them we're coming alongside."

Springing upon the now steady cabin-top the Patrol Leader flashed a series of dots with his torch. The reply signal came almost immediately, showing that Bedford, Hayes, and Coles were anxiously on the look out for their comrades' return.

"We are bringing yacht alongside," signalled Desmond in Morse. "Swing in boat booms and lay out fenders."

For the next quarter of a mile progress was slow. The ebb-tide was weak, but the wind came only in fitful puffs over the tree-tops.

"We'll get it in a minute," declared the Patrol Leader, pointing to the ruffled water ahead that showed up distinctly in the reflected gleam of the guardship's riding-light.

"That usually happens," observed Mr. Graham. "Often and often a yacht approaches her moorings in a gentle little breeze, then just as she's on, down comes a puff that shoots her past the buoy like a young racehorse.... Findlay!"

"Ay, ay, sir," replied Jock from the cabin.

"How is Mr. Collinson?"

"Still insensible, sir."

"All right; think you can leave him? If so, come on deck. You'll be wanted to make fast when we go alongside."

Findlay obeyed with alacrity; but had it been light Mr. Graham would have had a bit of a shock. The excitement of attending to the injured man, and the Sea Scout's subsequent confinement in the stuffy cabin of the violently pitching and tossing boat, had made the lad sea-sick. Yet, dreading the chance of discovery more than the actual malady, Findlay had not said a word about it, but had stuck gamely to his appointed task.

As Desmond had predicted, there was quite a heavy squall as the yacht approached the guardship. Waiting until the latter craft gathered sufficient steerageway, Mr. Graham lowered the staysail. Adroitly steered by Desmond, the yacht ran gently alongside the hull of the guardship. Ropes were thrown and made fast, and, with hardly a jar, the two vessels were side to side, separated only by a pair of large coir fenders.

The first instalment of the Southend-on-Sea Sea Scouts' "good turn" was an accomplished fact.

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