* * * *
Surrounded by his captors, the prisoner was escorted along the almost deserted High Street, Mr. Grant and the two Sea Scouts following at a distance. A few fishermen and market porters formed the sightseeing part of the procession.
About a couple of hundred yards up the street was a closed-in motor with the headlights switched on, and the engine softly "ticking over."
Suddenly the prisoner gave a shrill whistle.
The car bounded forward, turned abruptly and fled to the accompaniment of loud blasts on the policeman's whistle.
Then the car disappeared round a corner. A second or two later came the sound of an appalling crash.
"Smash!" exclaimed Mr. Grant. "Run, you fellows."
The Scoutmaster and the two Sea Scouts broke into a run. As they turned the corner they saw that the car had crashed end-on into a stationary lorry and was already well ablaze.
Lying inertly on the pavement with his head touching the base of a lamp-post was the luckless driver of the car, stunned and considerably cut about the head by the broken glass of the windscreen.
Deftly the Sea Scouts rendered First Aid, then, detaching the tailboard of the lorry, they placed the injured man upon it and carried him to the hospital, which was only about a hundred yards from the scene of the accident.
Having furnished the police inspector with the required information they accompanied Mr. Grant back to the harbour.
Day was breaking by the time the now weary-eyed but excited lads had completed their task of mooring up their boat, and at the Scoutmaster's invitation they went back to his house for a very early breakfast.
"That fellow who got smashed up," said Peter during the course of the meal, "was the one who spoke to me while I was fishing onthe pier yesterday—or, rather, the day before yesterday."
"Then that was what aroused your suspicions," remarked Mr. Grant.
Craddock shook his head.
"No, sir," he replied. "I never connected the two until an hour ago. He pumped me properly, though. Asked particulars about you and all that. I can see it now."
"Then what did?" persisted Mr. Grant.
"The letter, sir, that was supposed to have been written by you."
"Oh, and how's that?"
"Do you remember about a week ago, sir, when we wrote off about a new accommodation-ladder for thePuffin? I spelt 'accommodation' with one 'm' and you told me about it. Well, in that forged letter the same word occurred and it had only one 'm.' That was enough to start on. So I telegraphed to you. And then I just kept my eyes open——"
"As a Sea Scout should," added Mr. Grant.
"But I can't much longer, sir," rejoined Peter with another yawn.
"Thishas been a dud cruise, if you like!" observed Patrol-leader Brandon to his particular chum, Craddock. "Mind, I'm not saying that it hasn't been awfully enjoyable, but nothing's happened."
"Do you want anything to happen?" asked Peter. "I don't. I'm quite content to take things as they are in thePuffin."
All the same the weekly cruise had been uneventful. ThePuffinhad stood well out into the Channel, and after beating to the westward had put into Crabhaven for the night. She was now on her way back to Aberstour, running with spinnaker set and mainsheet slacked right out before a gentle sou'westerly breeze.
Nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. The Sea Scouts' log contained no entries beyond the customary records of the state of the tide and the force and direction of the wind. They hadn't had to reef; they hadn't missed their tide; they hadn't even runaground on making the intricate entrance to Crabhaven. They were now within five miles of their home-port, and dead in the centre of the fairway between the grey cliffs to port and the submerged shoal known as the Grab to starboard. With a fair wind and tide there was every reason to expect that the remaining five miles would be reeled off in quick time and without incident.
"Those fellows are a time having their tea," commented Peter, as the sound of chattering voices came from the cabin where the rest of the crew were doing full justice to good fare with their healthy appetites. "Aren't you peckish, Frank?"
"Just about," agreed the Patrol-leader. "But I'd rather hang on to the tiller than waste time over grub. Hello! Wind's dropping. Does it mean we'll have to sweep the yacht the rest of the way?"
The breeze was certainly falling off. Already thePuffin'smainsheet was dropping in the water, and her spinnaker was no longer curving before the following wind. Yet she was still making way and answering to her helm.
"What's that right ahead, old son?" asked Peter, pointing in a line with the bowsprit end.
"What's what?" rejoined his chum. "I can't see anything."
"It's less than twenty yards away. Up helm a bit, or we'll hit it. Looks like a water-logged barrel."
Brandon altered the helm a little. Peter grasped a boathook.
The object drifted slowly past the yacht's side. The slight alteration of course had enabled her to clear it by about five or six feet. Craddock was about to satisfy his curiosity by prodding it with the tip of the boathook when Brandon grasped him by the wrist.
"Hold on!" he exclaimed earnestly. "Be careful! It's a mine."
Before the astonished Craddock could offer any comment the Patrol-leader called to Mr. Grant to come on deck.
The Scoutmaster appeared promptly, followed by the rest of the crew, who, judging rightly by the Patrol-leader's anxious tone, were anxious to know the reason for the urgent summons.
"A mine, sir!" reported Brandon.
"By Jove, yes!" agreed Mr. Grant. "We've only just missed it."
The sinister object had evidently been under water for years. Its globular shape was thickly encrusted with barnacles and seaweed. Only a small portion of it was above the surface, but even that relatively diminutive part displayed a pair of aggressive-looking horns. These, composed of brittle material, had onlyto be fractured and the explosive contents of the mine would be detonated.
"Right in the fairway," remarked Peter.
"Yes," agreed the Scoutmaster. "Right in the line of shipping. It's up to us, lads, to do our best to scotch it. Carline and Phillips! You two keep aft and watch that mine. Don't lose its position whatever you do! Now, lads, down spinnaker! Smartly, now!"
The huge light triangular sail was lowered and unbent in double-quick time, and the spinnaker-boom topped-up into its usual place.
"Down helm!" ordered Mr. Grant. "Mainsheet home! Stand by headsheets!"
ThePuffincame round slowly yet surely into the wind, close-hauled on the starboard tack.
"How does the mine bear?" asked the Scoutmaster.
"Two points on our starboard bow, sir," replied Carline.
"Good!" continued Mr. Grant. "Now, lads, listen! We've got to buoy that mine. We can't tow it. That's too risky, because the thing might go up and us with it. On the other hand it might not, since it's probably been under water for eight or nine years. Last week's gale parted it from its moorings, I should imagine. Lee-o! We'll beat up to it as close as we dare."
As soon as thePuffinhad settled on the other tack, Mr. Grant continued:—
"Get up one of our water-beakers and empty it, Brandon. You, Talbot, get Letter B flag from the signal locker, and lash it to the boathook staff. Now, Peter, you're a splendid swimmer. Are you willing to run a possible risk? Good, you are! Off with your things, then. You and I are going for a swim."
Scoutmaster and scout began to divest themselves of their clothing. Meanwhile the boathook staff with the red swallow-tail flag attached, had been thrust into the bung-hole of the now empty beaker. A length of stout rope was bent to the barrel and coiled up ready for further use.
ThePuffinwas now hove-to at about fifty yards from the drifting mine. Mr. Grant and Craddock dived overboard. The beaker was dropped into the water, and the two swimmers, towing their make-shift mark-buoy, made for the mine.
"Near enough!" announced the Scoutmaster. "Keep the buoy as she is, Peter. Don't let it bump alongside, whatever you do. I'm going to dive."
Taking the slack of the rope, Mr. Grant approached to within a few feet of the mine, and disappeared from view. Ahead, and at about six feet underneath the sinister object,he saw what he hoped would be there—a length of rusty iron chain secured to a ring at the base of the mine.
Working rapidly, yet with extreme caution, he bent the end of the line to one of the links of the chain; then, striking out until he was well clear of that barnacle-encrusted menace, he broke surface.
"All secure!" he spluttered. "Let's hope the buoy won't bump before we're well away. Strike out, Peter."
Both swam their hardest. Breathlessly they clambered over the yacht's side, and without loss of time thePuffingathered way and drew clear of the danger zone. Peter and his Scoutmaster went below to dress.
As soon as possible they regained the cockpit. Brandon was keeping the yacht tacking at about a quarter of a mile from the square of red bunting that indicated the position of the now invisible menace.
"Now for a little signal-practice," said Mr. Grant briskly. "Where's the Code Book. Let's hope our letter B won't be required."
ThePuffinwas within visual signalling distance of Dungale coastguard station. Her signal, reporting the presence of a floating mine was seen and acknowledged.
"We may as well hang on and see the fun," observed Mr. Grant, and the suggestion met with unanimous approval.
Within half-an-hour the fishery protection gunboat appeared upon the scene, and the highly interested Sea Scouts watched the proceedings with zest.
The gunboat opened fire with rifles and a machine-gun. The red signal flag disappeared as if by magic. All around the spot the water was churned by the hail of bullets. Yet the mine did not explode.
"Probably a dud," commented Brandon when the firing ceased. "They've sunk it, more than likely."
But after a brief interval the gunboat reopened fire. Suddenly a huge column of water was flung high in the air, to be followed almost immediately by the terrific crash of the explosion.
"Good-bye to our beaker, boathook and signal-flag," remarked Peter.
"Lost in a thundering good cause," added the Scoutmaster gravely. "Now, lads! up helm. We've got to look slippy if we're to save our tide!"
"I don'tunderstand, sir," stammered Captain Josiah Quelch, fumbling with the peak of his cap.
"You don't understand," repeated Mr. Fiandersole, head of the shipping firm that bore his name. "You don't understand, eh? Do you want me to put the proposition any plainer? I don't think there's need for that, Captain Quelch."
There was silence for a few moments. Through the heavily curtained door of Mr. Fiandersole's private office came the clicking of half a dozen typewriters.
"It's no use trying to hedge," continued the head director crisply. "You've got to do and do it promptly—this voyage, in fact. I needn't recall to your mind a certain incident——"
"No, sir, you needn't," rejoined the agitated captain. "You've got me fairly on my knees."
"And I jolly well mean to keep you there!"snarled Mr. Fiandersole. "After all's said and done, you benefit. Play me false and you'll get seven years on that other count. And you can't round on me, Captain Quelch. What passes between us is without witnesses, and my word is as good as yours—better, if it comes to a court of law."
"But my certificate, sir," protested the other.
"Your certificate will be safe, provided you don't bungle. And there's a cool three thousand pounds, although I presume some of that will have to be shared out. That's your affair. I don't want to know anything about that. If you fail you're sacked—understand that. And if you open your mouth, my man, remember what I threatened just now. But it's no use beating about the bush—do it."
"Very good, sir," agreed Captain Quelch.
"That's much better, Captain!" exclaimed Mr. Fiandersole cordially. "In deep water, mind—and no loss of life."
* * * * * * *
Twenty-four hours later Captain Josiah Quelch, having dropped the pilot off the Forelands, was well on his way down Channel.
He was far from being in a happy state of mind. For one thing, the s.s.Getalongwas in a thick fog. For another, the old tramp was in a decidedly unseaworthy condition.It was a mystery how the Board of Trade ever passed her on the last survey, or how the underwriters had been persuaded to insure her for sixty thousand pounds. But what weighed most heavily upon the captain's mind was the knowledge that by some means or other theGetalongmust not reach port again.
"What's the matter with the Old Man, Bill?" inquired the quartermaster, as for the tenth time in half an hour Captain Quelch walked to the weather-side of the bridge and leant over the rails. "Wot 'e expects to see alongside licks me."
A long-drawn wail from the distant shore was borne faintly to the ears of the men on the bridge.
"That's Oldbury Head, Mr. Stevens," remarked Captain Quelch, addressing the second officer. "Ease her off a point. We can't run risks in a fog like this."
"Ay, ay, sir," replied the second officer, although he could not account for his superior's excess of caution. Already on the course set, theGetalongwould be well clear of all headlands until abreast of St. Catherine's.
With her syren going at frequent intervals, the old tramp wallowed through the mirk of grey, oily sea and grey, clammy fog. Once or twice a foghorn was heard bleating feebly, but not sufficiently near to be considered dangerous.
Again the skipper approached the charthouse, peered at the clock and shuffled to the weather-side of the bridge.
Suddenly the old tramp quivered and appeared to come to a dead stop. Then with an equally abrupt jerk she forged ahead again.
"What's that, Mr. Stevens?" shouted the captain. "Don't say we've run something down?"
"Fo'c'sle there!" hailed the second officer. "Anything under our bows?"
"Nothing, sir," came a husky voice from the invisible fo'c'sle.
"Bit of wreckage, perhaps, sir," suggested Stevens. "Hope she hasn't started a plate—they're none too sound."
"Tell the carpenter to try the well," ordered Captain Quelch. "No—better go yourself, Mr. Stevens. Look alive."
The second officer descended the bridge ladder and went below. In a couple of minutes he was back again.
"She's sprung a leak, sir," he reported breathlessly. "It's pouring in like a sluice."
Before the skipper could make any observation concerning a circumstance that had occasioned him not the slightest surprise, the chief engineer appeared.
"We've done it this time, Cap'n Quelch," he bawled. "Water's over the engine beds. I'll have to shut off steam."
"No chance of plugging the hole?" inquired the Old Man.
"Not the slightest," replied the chief. "Even if we could get at it. It's my belief the bottom's knocked clean out of her."
"Clear away the boats," shouted the Old Man. "Look alive, there."
By this time the firemen were on deck; apparently the engine-room and the boiler-rooms were no longer tenable.
But the chief engineer went back to his post leisurely enough when out of sight. He rather prided himself upon the success of his part of the scheme, which consisted of opening one of the underwater valves and then reversing the engines so suddenly that the terrific strain had created the impression that the old tramp had bumped into something pretty hard and substantial.
Anyway, the chief engineer had done his bit in the dirty piece of work, and salved the remaining rags of an easy conscience by the fact that he would soon be the richer to the tune of a couple of hundred pounds.
Having shut off steam, the chief picked up a small leather handbag, packed with considerable care and forethought a few hours previously, and returned on deck. Already most of the crew were in the boats.
Captain Quelch, likewise equipped with a handbag, and with the ship's papers under hisarm, was acting up to the time-honoured traditions of the British Mercantile Marine—to be the last to quit the sinking ship.
"She's not going very fast," he said in an undertone to the chief engineer.
"Man, she'll not last five minutes," was the reassuring reply, as the chief threw one leg over the rail and dropped into a boat alongside.
The Old Man, giving a final glance around, followed his example.
"Give way, lads, smartly!" he exclaimed. "Se's going."
The boat pushed off, the Old Man steering her towards the others, which were barely discernible in the fog.
"Keep together," he ordered. "Got a compass in your boat, Mr. Baldock?"
"Ay, ay, sir," replied the chief officer.
"Then course N. by E.," ordered the captain. "We'll make for Aberstour. 'Tis but a couple of hours' pulling at most."
"We'llhave that jack-yarder aloft, lads!" exclaimed Scoutmaster Grant as the yachtPuffincleared the entrance to Aberstour Harbour. "It's going to be a fine day and a light wind from the south'ard."
The Otters were having their turn afloat, and, on the principle that a voyage is all the more enjoyable if made with a definite object in view, they had planned a run out to theVangLightship with a consignment of papers and magazines to help liven the monotonous existence of the lightship's crew.
Quickly the topsail was set. The yacht being "stiff," she could carry this additional canvas with ease even in a much stronger breeze. Now she was slipping through the dancing, sunlit water at a very modest three knots.
"Jolly sight better than sitting in a stuffy court," remarked Peter Craddock, referring to the recent trial of a certain Harry Benz, who, under the name of George Gregory, hadattempted to smuggle a quantity of cocaine.
"I didn't like having to give evidence a bit, sir. And it seemed rough luck that the fellow should get all the punishment and his pals go scot free."
"A case of honour amongst thieves, I expect," remarked Mr. Grant. "He wouldn't divulge the names of his accomplices, and apparently there was a pretty big gang at work."
"I suppose, sir," said Patrol-leader Frank Brandon, "they won't try to pay us out."
"Hardly," replied the Scoutmaster, shaking his head. "They'll look upon our part of the business from a level-headed point of view. They used us as instruments to further their ends—and that without consulting us. They took their chances and got let down. Revenge rarely enters into the case as far as an Englishman is concerned,even amongst rogues."
"Of course, with Spaniards and Italians the case is different. No, I don't think we have any cause for anxiety on that score. Slack off that lee runner a bit, Carline. That's right. Now, Peter, another couple of feet home with that mainsheet."
A couple of hours' run brought thePuffinwithin hailing distance of theVangLightship. The shipkeepers knew the Sea Scouts and guessed their errand.
"Coming aboard, sir?" inquired the mate,who happened to be in charge of the lightship in the absence of the master on shore leave.
"Not to-day, thank you," replied Mr. Grant, noticing that theVangwas riding stern to tide, and was in consequence pitching considerably. "We've just had our topsides painted. Stand by for papers."
One of the men produced a landing-net lashed to the end of a boathook. ThePuffin, with staysail a-weather, crept slowly under the lee of the huge, lobster-red hull.
Deftly Brandon transferred the packet of newspapers to the net, receiving in return a small waterproof bag containing the lightship's "mail."
"Righto!" shouted Mr. Grant. "We'll post that little lot for you well before post time. Sheet home, Peter. Up helm, Tom."
"Plenty of time yet, sir," remarked Brandon as thePuffindrew clear of the securely-moored lightship. "Can't we have a run seaward and come back on the young flood?"
"Just what I was about to suggest," agreed the Scoutmaster. "The wind's dropping, I fancy. Plenty of petrol in the tank, I hope?"
"Filled up this morning, sir," was Brandon's reassuring reply.
For the next hour thePuffinheld on, her crew basking in the glorious sunshine. Then, with remarkable suddenness the sun disappeared in a watery haze, the temperaturedropped considerably, and the crew actually found themselves shivering.
"Fog banking up," announced Mr. Grant. "Luckily we're inside the steamer track. All we'll have to mind is the cross-Channel traffic in and out of Aberstour. Put her about, Brandon. Tide's against us still. If we get closer in-shore we may dodge the worst of it."
The Patrol-leader knew his work. He was well-equipped for his position. Mr. Grant stood aside, ready to correct or criticise; but there was no occasion. The yacht ran up into the wind, fell off on the other tack and gathered way without the faintest hitch.
"Well done, Brandon!" exclaimed Mr. Grant. "I see we shan't escape the fog. It's banking up on all sides. Now I want you to carry on and take all necessary precautions."
In a few minutes thePuffinwas enshrouded in a thick, clammy bank of vapour. At times it was impossible to see the bowsprit-end from the cockpit. The wind, too, had dropped until the saturated canvas was barely drawing.
Meanwhile Brandon had told off Phillips to go for'ard as look-out; Wilson was instructed to stand by with the fog-horn; Hopcroft was given the hand-lead with instructions to sound occasionally, while the rest of the crew were to tend sheets and runners, should it be necessary to "go about."
"There's a foghorn, sir," announcedPhillips after twenty minutes had elapsed since the arrival of the fog. "Two blasts—that's a sailing vessel on the port tack."
"How does the sound bear?" asked the Patrol-leader.
"On our starboard bow," replied Phillips.
"I thought it was on our port bow!" exclaimed Hopcroft.
"No fear, it was there!" declared Carline, pointing over the yacht's starboard quarter. "Wasn't it, sir?"
Thus appealed to, Mr. Grant had to confess that he was unable to say.
"Wait another minute and you'll hear it again," he added. "Sound plays strange pranks in a fog. Keep our horn going, Wilson; one blast at a time 'cause we're on the starboard tack."
The blare of the stranger's fog-horn grew louder and louder. Still there was no definite indication of the direction from which the sound came. Then a cock crew loudly and brazenly.
"We aren't near land already!" exclaimed Carline.
"No," replied the Scoutmaster. "That shows that the vessel's a fairly large one, since she carries poultry coops. Give her another blast, Phillips."
The resounding echoes had hardly died away when the swish of water from the unseenvessel's bows became unpleasantly audible. Then through a temporary lifting of the mist, appeared the ghostly outlines of a huge full-rigged ship.
A hoarse shout given in a foreign tongue resulted in the stranger porting helm sufficiently to enable her to run under thePuffin'sstern. It was a close call, but even in the moment of suspense the Sea Scouts could not help gazing with admiration at the towering canvas and graceful outlines of the craft that had narrowly avoided sending them to the bottom.
"Ohé!" hailed the skipper of the ship. "'Ow ze land bears it?"
"Oldbury Head seven miles nor'-nor'-east," shouted Mr. Grant in reply.
The captain waved his hand in acknowledgement. The great ship glided past, giving the Sea Scouts time to read the words, "Achilles, Nantes," on her stern before she was swallowed up in the fog.
"Frenchman!" exclaimed Craddock. "And isn't she shifting, although there's hardly enough wind to make us answer our helm."
"At any rate, we've done her a Good Turn," remarked Mr. Grant. "She's going about already. Cautious chap, that skipper. Now, Hopcroft, try a cast and let's see where we are."
The lead-line showed a depth of seventeenfathoms, while when the lead was brought on deck the "arming" was thick with fine grey sand.
"Good enough," said the Scoutmaster. "We're still eight miles from land. I gave that fellow a generous amount of scope, which is on the safe side. Now, lads, grub. Watch and watch. Starboard watch will remain on deck while the port watch goes below."
With an appreciative "Ay, ay, sir!" Craddock was about to dive into the cabin when Symington, who had relieved Phillips in the bows, suddenly yelled:
"Vessel dead ahead, sir!"
Thefog had lifted sufficiently to enable the crew of thePuffinto command a radius of vision of about a hundred yards—and within that distance was a steamship, bows on.
By the rule of the road at sea it was her place to give way to the little sailing craft, but she made no effort to do so, neither did she indicate by a blast on her syren which course she was about to take.
"Down helm!" shouted Mr. Grant, knowing that a fore-and-aft rigged vessel will answer more readily with lee than with weather helm.
Round swept thePuffinwith an ample margin of safety, for during the manoeuvre the Scoutmaster noticed that the tramp was not making way. She was lying almost broadside on to the wind, with her bows high out of the water.
It struck the Sea Scouts as being a strange state of affairs. The steam-vessel's anchors were hove close up to the hawsepipes, showing that she had not brought up, a thin wispof fleecy white vapour was issuing from her steampipe; yet her bridge appeared to be deserted.
Then, as the yacht passed to wind'ard the Sea Scouts were quick to notice another peculiarity. The tramp's quarter boats had been lowered hurriedly, as the swaying falls with their lower blocks violently crashing against her sides with every roll of the vessel indicated.
No self-respecting skipper would send away a boat without ordering those of the crew who remained on board to secure the davit gear.
"She's been abandoned," declared Phillips.
"And she's sinking," added Talbot.
All eyes on board thePuffinwere watching the mysterious tramp as the yacht moved slowly past the former's port side. The vessel's bows were well up and the stern correspondingly depressed.
Already the water, fortunately calm, was level with the scuttles in her quarter; yet she showed no tendency to list.
"No closer," cautioned Mr. Grant to Brandon at the tiller. "Round-to well away from her stern and let's see her name."
The Patrol-leader carried out his instructions, and the crew saw the letters, "Getalong, London," painted on her rounded stern.
"She's not getting along, is she?" whispered Carline.
"Unless it's to the bottom of the sea," added Hopcroft, rather awestruck at the thought that an apparently seaworthy ship was doomed. "Will it be safe to watch her go, sir?"
The Scoutmaster did not reply. He was thinking deeply over a puzzling problem. Here was a steam vessel abandoned. There were no evidences of her having been in collision. Her fires were still in.
Outwardly there was nothing to suggest a disaster, save for the ship being deep down aft. Yet she did not appear to be foundering rapidly. As far as he could judge she had not sunk another six inches during the last five or ten minutes.
A desire to render assistance, coupled with pardonable curiosity, prompted Mr. Grant to board her. On the other hand caution urged him to keep away. He was responsible for the lives of his youthful crew, and on that account he hesitated.
"I wonder if she is abandoned?" remarked Brandon. "Suppose there are people on board—gassed, injured, or something like that? Oughtn't we to make sure, sir?"
"Stow canvas and start up!" ordered Mr. Grant laconically.
Quickly the sails were lowered and temporarily stowed. Craddock hurried below to prepare the motor for starting. In five minutesthePuffin, under power but with the clutch in neutral, was almost motionless within fifty yards of theGetalong'sstarboard quarter.
"Now, lads!" exclaimed the Scoutmaster earnestly. "Listen. I'm going to board her. Brandon, you will remain here and keep the yacht going, but don't close the ship—keep your distance. At the same time don't lose sight of her.
"Craddock and Phillips, you can come with me in the dinghy, but directly I jump aboard push off and lay-to. If that vessel does make a sudden plunge pull away for all you're worth. I'll have to take my chance of getting clear, but I don't fancy she will. Get the dinghy alongside, Peter."
Itcannot truthfully be recorded that Craddock and Phillips were cool and collected—they weren't. It would be difficult to describe their true feelings.
They were excited at entering upon this strange adventure, and a bit scared as to the possible results. On the other hand they had implicit trust in their Scoutmaster and could be relied upon to carry out faithfully his instructions.
"Keep your weather eye lifting, Brandon!" exclaimed Mr. Grant, as the dinghy pushed off from the yacht. "Watch the fog. It may come on worse."
"Ay, ay, sir," responded the Patrol-leader.
"Way 'nough," ordered the Scoutmaster, as the cockleshell dinghy approached the tramp. He was now convinced that the abandoned craft was making little if any water. Her freeboard aft was approximately the same as when he first took stock of her.
The sea was so calm that the dinghy couldlie alongside without danger or difficulty. Grasping his opportunity Mr. Grant swung himself on board.
"Righto!" he shouted reassuringly. "Push off and wait until I hail."
TheGetalongwas rolling slightly and sluggishly, the dull swish of the water in her hold being plainly audible as he made his way to the engine-room hatchway.
The air of the compartment was heavy with smoke and steam. For a moment the Scoutmaster hesitated. Above the sullen swirl of the imprisoned water he distinctly heard a steady trickle.
"What I expected—only more so," thought Mr. Grant, and without further ado he switched on his electric torch and descended the steel ladder.
That theGetalongwas a very old type of vessel was apparent by the fact that she waswithout water-tightbulkheads. There was a bulkhead at the after end of the engine-room and at the for'ard end of the stokehold, but both had sliding doors communicating with the holds.
Water had poured into the engine-room—it was still coming in—and had run aft owing to the fact that the cargo in the after hold was much heavier than that stowed for'ard. That accounted for the vessel being down by the stern.
It did not take Mr. Grant long to discover the leak. A large valve in the "wings" through which water was normally admitted into the circulating pumps was wide open, while the joint of the pipe had been deliberately "broken" by unscrewing the six gun-metal bolts uniting the flanges.
"Attempted scuttling!" exclaimed the Scoutmaster as he closed the valve. "That's done the rascals in the eye this time. Can't hear any more water coming in; but it seems strange that only a little stream like that has filled her."
Ankle deep in black oily water that swirled over the bedplates, Mr. Grant groped his way to the stokehold. Here the depth of water was only a couple of feet. The still burning furnaces, from which hot cinders were continually dropping, fizzling as they came in contact with the water, showed that theGetalonghad not been long abandoned.
Thence right for'ard. Here all seemed in order. Beyond the usual "weeping" of the laps of the hull-plating there was nothing to indicate a leak.
"Good enough!" exclaimed the Scoutmaster gleefully, as he made his way on deck.
"She won't sink, lads!" he shouted, as he signalled the dinghy to close.
"What did you do just now, sir?" inquired Craddock. "We saw something shoot to thesurface, so we pulled towards it. It was a dead sheep."
"Then that accounts for it," decided Mr. Grant. "There was a regular torrent coming in through the valve until by a lucky chance the suction drew that dead sheep. The carcase acted as a valve and stopped or nearly stopped the inflow. Now it's safe to conclude that the vessel won't sink."
Mr. Grant looked at thePuffin. She was still in about the same place, and fairly visible in spite of the wreathing fog.
"Puffin, ahoy!" he hailed.
"Ay, ay, sir," replied Brandon.
"Close a bit."
"Ay, ay, sir."
The yacht's propeller began to churn, and thePuffinglided gently to within a dozen yards of the tramp.
"We're going to get that craft into Aberstour, lads," declared the Scoutmaster.
"Tow her in, sir?" asked Brandon.
"Hardly," replied Mr. Grant. "Our twelve horse-power wouldn't get her along at more than one mile an hour. The tide would set us well beyond Oldbury Head before that.
"No; I want you, Brandon, to take thePuffinback to Aberstour. North by west is the approximate course. Keep your lead going and mind the Medlar Shoal. When you get there tell Weatherhead, the master of the tugStormcock, to put out to us at once. Let him know that the job's worth a hundred or more."
"Ay, ay, sir," replied the Patrol-leader, keenly alive to the possibilities of sole command.
"And another thing," continued Mr. Grant. "You may pass some boats making for the shore—boats from this vessel. If they ask for a tow do so, but on no account must any of you even hint that theGetalongis still afloat."
"And how about you, sir?" inquired the Patrol-leader.
"Craddock, Phillips and I are going to stand by," replied the Scoutmaster. "There's no danger unless we're run down by another vessel. Between us I think we can manage all right till theStormcockarrives."
ThePuffindeparted on her errand.
Mr. Grant told the two Scouts to come on board and hoist in the dinghy.
"Now," he continued briskly. "There's some bilge water to be got rid of. It's lucky I know something—not much, though—of steam engines. We'll try getting the donkey engine to work."
Coals were shovelled into the foremost boiler. Slowly but surely the needle of the pressure gauge rose until the head of steam was sufficient for the work required.
In less than half an hour the steam bilge-pipes were at work, throwing huge jets ofwater over the side, while in a couple of hours theGetalongwas again in her normal trim.
image: 04_tug.jpg{Illustration: "THE SQUAT LITTLE TUG LOOMED UP, HER CREW AUGMENTED BY SIXTEEN WILDLY EXCITED SEA SCOUTS."[P. 61}
That was all that could be done, at least for the time being. A tedious wait ensued, until Mr. Grant decided that they ought to anchor.
Hitherto such a precaution was hardly necessary, since the east-going tide had changed fifty minutes ago and the opposite or west-going stream was setting theGetalongback to the approximate position where thePuffinleft her.
But before the three "hands" could clear away the cable and release the compression, a long-drawn wail, followed by four short blasts, announced that theStormcockwas approaching.
In reply, Craddock gaily tootled theGetalong'ssyren, until, grotesquely magnified by the mist, the squat little tug loomed up, her normal crew augmented by sixteen wildly excited Sea Scouts, since the Seals and the Eels had prevailed upon the good-natured Captain Weatherhead to let them "have a look in."
It did not take very long for a stout hawser to be passed on board the tramp, and by five o'clock theGetalongcrossed Aberstour bar on a falling tide with less than two feet of water under her keel.
"You saw no signs of the crew?" inquired Mr. Grant as he stepped ashore.
"No, sir," replied Brandon. "The firstthing we saw after we left you—sorry, sir, I didn't mean to suggest that you were a thing—was the east pier-head of Aberstour. Luck, of course," he added modestly.
"Just as well, perhaps, that you didn't fall in with the crew," commented Mr. Grant. "I think that as soon as the fog lifts we'll go for a week's cruise, otherwise the best part of our holidays will be taken up with attending police-courts.
"As a matter of fact it is lifting. Away home, lads, and tell your people we're off cruising for a few days. With decent luck we ought to be in Sablesham Harbour before sunset."