Itwas late in the afternoon when the boats of the s.s.Getalongreached the beach seven miles to the east of Aberstour. Captain Quelch had set the course calculating upon the tide being slack, but he was ignorant of the fact that on that part of the coast the tide sets two hours later on shore than it does in the offing.
Consequently instead of making Aberstour, he and his crew found themselves, much to their disgust, seven miles from the town and the nearest railway station.
Leaving the boats in charge of a fisherman, Captain Quelch inquired the way to the nearest village which boasted an inland telegraph office.
From the latter the Old Man dispatched a wire to Mr. Fiandersole:—
"S.S.Getalongfoundered ten miles from Oldbury Head. All hands saved.—Quelch, Master."
"S.S.Getalongfoundered ten miles from Oldbury Head. All hands saved.—Quelch, Master."
Then, having refreshed themselves, the shipless mariners set out to trudge to Aberstour. Footsore and hungry they arrived at the outskirts of the town, their appearance attracting a considerable amount of attention.
"Where's the harbour master's office, mate?" inquired Captain Quelch of a fisherman. "And the Sailors' Home, too."
"Up along the quay," was the reply, accompanied by a jerk of a tarry thumb.
"You can't miss either of 'em."
But, unfortunately for him, Captain Quelch was fated to miss both; for, on turning the corner of the street leading to the quay he stood stock still, his eyes nearly leaping out of his head in sheer amazement.
Nor was the astonishment of his companions much less, for within fifty yards of them, securely moored, lay the s.s.Getalong.
The skipper turned to his partner in crime, the chief engineer.
"You've mucked it, you fool!" he hissed.
"'Pears ye're richt," admitted the still fuddled Aberdonian, as if it were beneath his dignity to argue over what was an apparent and obvious fact.
"I'll send the men aboard," continued Quelch. "You an' me had best hook it. Where's a railway station, my man?" he added, addressing a clean-shaven man in a blue reefer suit and bowler hat.
"Police station, you mean," was the reply. "This way, Captain Quelch. I've been looking for you. Let me caution you; any statement you may make will be used as evidence against you. Are you coming quietly?"
The procession was reformed. Captain Quelch and the detective led the way, followed by the chief engineer and another representative of the law.
The rest of the officers and the crew formed the main body, although they had no idea why they were invited to inspect the inside of the Aberstour police station. Three uniformed policemen brought up the rear, while ahead and on both flanks were dozens of curious townsfolk.
Once on his way along the quay the arrested captain looked seaward. A little cutter, outward bound, was passing between the pier-heads. To a seaman who, more than likely, was to spend the next few years of his life between stone walls, the sight of that little yacht raised envious regrets.
"Lucky beggars!" he muttered.
But possibly his benediction would have taken a different form had he but known that it was through the agency of thePuffinand her crew of Sea Scouts that the s.s.Getalongwas not lying fathoms deep on the bed of the English Channel.
"Oneof you fellows must remain on board as ship-keeper," decided Scoutmaster Grant. "The unlucky one must be elected amongst yourselves, so get busy, lads."
ThePuffinlay alongside the quay at Sablesham, moored fore and aft by ropes ashore and with her anchor in the stream to prevent her chafing against the piles.
The Sea Scouts were about to spend the evening ashore. An invitation had been received from the Lydiard Scouts to attend a camp-fire concert at a camp on the side of Blackbird Beacon, a lofty, grass-covered chalk down about five miles from Sablesham Harbour.
Having told his crew to choose amongst themselves who should be ship-keeper, Mr. Grant went ashore to visit the harbour master. Twenty minutes later he returned to find the debatable point still undecided. Everyone wanted to go, and each Sea Scout had half a dozen reasons, good, bad, or indifferent, whyhe shouldnotbe left behind. There was no unseemly wrangle or display of bad temper; they were simply arguing the matter out.
"What! Not settled yet?" exclaimed Mr. Grant.
"We wish you'd decide, sir," said Carline.
"Unanimous on that?" asked the Scoutmaster.
"Yes, sir," was the reply in chorus.
"Well, I'm not going to," was Mr. Grant's somewhat disconcerting response, but there was a sly twinkle in his eyes that told the crew pretty plainly that their Scoutmaster would speedily solve the perplexing problem.
"You're going to choose Scout fashion. Brandon, bring me a piece of old rope out of the junk locker, please."
The Patrol-leader brought the required article. Deliberately Mr. Grant unlaid a portion of the rope and cut off seven pieces each about three inches in length, and one piece an inch shorter.
"Now," he continued. "Face outward and don't look this way until I tell you."
Obediently the crew gazed stolidly at a fishing smack moored alongside the opposite quay, notwithstanding a strong inclination to know what was going on behind their backs.
"Now, this way!"
The Sea Scouts faced about. On the coaming of the cockpit lay the signal code-book,while from beneath the latter projected eight pieces of rope each showing an equal length.
"The fellow who draws the short piece is to be ship-keeper," explained Mr. Grant. "Now, Symington, Talbot, Hopcroft, Carline, Phillips, Wilson."
As each lad's name was called he drew out one of the rope-yarns. Some chose theirs boldly, others hesitated, making several feints before taking the plunge, especially as the number of rope-yarns diminished without the short end coming to light.
"Now, Craddock."
Peter Craddock gave a swift glance at his comrade in the final—Patrol-leader Brandon.
"Take the one on your left," suggested Brandon.
But Peter chose the other; it was the short end.
"Hard lines, partner!" exclaimed Brandon.
True to his principles Peter Craddock kept smiling, though it was with envious eyes that he saw his chums "smartening-up" for their visit to the Lydiard Scouts' camp.
"Cheerio, Peter," was Scoutmaster Grant's parting greeting. "We'll be back about ten—half-past ten at the latest. Don't forget the riding-lamp."
The Sea Scouts jumped ashore. Craddock watched them along the quay and over the swing-bridge until they disappeared round thecorner of the Custom House. Then he settled down to his seven hours' "trick."
There was not much to be done or to be seen. Sablesham Harbour was almost deserted. The fishing fleet, with a few exceptions, was out. A couple of grimy colliers were discharging their cargo at the gasworks. A French smack with her hold full of onions had just arrived.
All these vessels lay along the east quay. The west quay was untenanted with the exception of thePuffin, which lay about a hundred yards inside the curved arm of the pier.
After a while Craddock retired to the cabin, and was soon deeply engrossed inThe Scout. Tea was rather a sorry meal eaten in solitude, but Peter, methodical in most matters, washed up and stowed the things away.
At six o'clock, being half flood, he took in the slack of the ropes and shifted the dinghy from alongside to under the bowsprit, so as to be out of the way in case a clumsily-managed boat coming in should give her a nasty "nip." This done he was free to continue reading until sunset.
Presently he became aware of the fact that the light was fading. A heavy patter on the coach-roof of the cabin informed him without any doubt about the matter that it was raining.
Donning his oilskin Craddock went on deckto make sure that there was nothing left about that might get spoilt. A glance at the sky showed that the rain had set in for the night, although there was no wind at all. So heavy was the downpour that the houses beyond the opposite quay were almost invisible.
"May as well light the riding lamp while I'm about it," thought the lad. "It's almost sunset."
The lamp, cleaned and well-trimmed, was quickly lighted and hoisted on the fore-stay. Then going below and pulling over the sliding-hatch, Peter prepared to make the best of things till his comrades returned.
He rather felt like "shaking hands with himself" at the thought that he hadn't to tramp a good five miles in the pouring rain. After all there were worse places than a cosy and well-lighted cabin on board a yacht snugly moored in a sheltered harbour.
"Let me see," he continued, "high water's at 8.15. No need to tend the warps before midnight. I'll put the kettle on the stove about nine, so that the other fellows can have something hot when they return."
Deep in his favourite paper, Peter was unconscious of the flight of time until the rippling of water against the yacht's bows warned him that the tide had changed and was beginning to ebb hard. A glance at the clock showed that it was nine o'clock.
"Below there!"
Craddock sat up with a start. Someone was hailing from the quayside. Who could be wanting to communicate with the yacht on such a horribly dirty night?
"Below there!" shouted the voice again.
Pushing back the sliding hatch Peter thrust head and shoulders out into the rain and darkness. Blinded by the sudden change from the well-lighted cabin, he could see nothing.
"Hello!" he replied. "What is it?"
"Is this thePuffin?" inquired the insistent voice. "Is Mr. Grant on board?"
"No, sir," replied Craddock.
"When will he return?"
"Very soon," was the non-committal answer.
"In that case I'll come on board and wait," rejoined the stranger.
There was a heavy thud, as a pair of thick-soled boots landed on the deck, and a burly figure, just visible in the dancing rays of the swinging riding-light, made straight for the companion hatchway.
Peter went down the steps and stood aside. The uninvited guest's boots clattered on the brass treads, his body enveloped in a leather motoring coat, from which the rain water ran in rivulets. He appeared to take up the whole width of the companion. Then, gaining the cabin, the stranger turned."Beastly horrible night, isn't it?" he remarked.
He was a pleasant-faced man of about thirty. To Craddock he appeared to resemble very strongly the confiding stranger who had "pumped" him on Aberstour pier. He might possibly be an elder brother, and if so was one of the gang of cocaine smugglers, the remainder of which was doing "time" in prison.
Doubtless he had had the yacht under observation and, finding that there was only one of the crew on board, was bent upon taking vengeance upon the Sea Scout who had been instrumental in capturing the self-styled Scoutmaster Gregory. Those and a score of similar thoughts flashed across Peter's mind. He decided to act strictly upon the defensive until Mr. Grant returned.
"Beastly horrible night, isn't it?" said the stranger again, as he removed his dripping coat. "Do you mind?"
Peter took the proffered garment and hung it in the cupboard on the starboard side of the companion-ladder. Then he closed the sliding-hatch, leaving the cabin doors open.
"Now we can have a cosy chat until Mr. Grant returns," continued the man, in no way offended by the Sea Scout's silence. "I'm anxious to meet you Sea Scouts, I've heardquite a lot about you. You're a set of plucky fellows."
"Are we?" said Peter cautiously.
"Aren't you?" rejoined the other, calmly seating himself on the settee on the starboard side, and thrusting out his legs. By so doing he had cut off Craddock's only means of getting out of the cabin, since the fore-hatch was closed and secured on the outside. "I suppose you had a hand in that little affair with your bogus Scoutmaster the other day?"
Peter made no reply.
"Modest about your achievement, eh?" laughed the stranger. "Very well, we'll change the subject. This is a fine little craft of yours. I'm a sailing man myself, when I can spare the time. As a matter of fact I was cruising off Aberstour about a week ago.White Gullis the name of my craft. She's about eighty tons."
"Straight-stemmed cutter, isn't she?" inquired Craddock, feeling that he must say something.
"No, spoon bow."
"Square stern?"
"No, counter."
"Oh!" exclaimed Peter involuntarily. The particulars as supplied by the talkative visitor coincided with those of the mysterious craft from which thePuffinhad received the consignment of contraband drugs.
At that moment a red light gleamed through the port scuttle. ThePuffinlifted to a swell and ground heavily against the piles.
"Steamer coming in," remarked the stranger. "She gave us a bit of a biff with her wash. I hope your warps are sound."
"I'll go on deck and see," said Peter eagerly.
Without waiting to put on his oilskin, Craddock nipped up the ladder. His unwanted companion made no effort to stop him. In fact, he moved his legs aside.
The rain was still descending in sheets. Through the mirk Craddock could distinguish the stern light of a tramp steamer that had just entered the harbour and was making for a berth beyond the swing-bridge.
In vain the Sea Scout looked along the ill-lighted quay in the hope of seeing either Mr. Grant or a policeman or even a friendly fisherman. The idea that had flashed across his mind had taken root. He was firmly convinced that the fellow in the cabin was there for no good purpose.
"I'll lock him in and go ashore for help," he decided, and measured the distance between the yacht's rail and the edge of the quay. By this time the tide had fallen considerably and was ebbing with great force. The coping of the masonry was a good five feet higher that thePuffin'sdeck.
"Don't want to find myself in the ditch," thought Peter.
Through the slightly-opened skylight he peeped cautiously into the cabin. The stranger was in the act of transferring a revolver from his hip-pocket to the side-pocket of his jacket.
The light of the cabin lamp glinted upon the dull steel of the sinister weapon. That was conclusive proof of the intentions of the fellow.
Very gently Craddock felt for the padlock and key of the companion hatch, which when not in use hung from a hook just behind one of the double doors. With a feeling of elation his fingers closed over the required articles.
The next instant the doors and the sliding-hatch were closed and the padlock slipped through the hasp that secured all three. So neatly was the operation completed that the man in the cabin was unaware of what had taken place. Possibly the thud of the raindrops upon the cabin-top had deadened the sound.
"Don't stop out in the rain, boy!" he shouted.
Chuckling over the success of his plan Peter went for'ard, intending to steady himself by the shrouds as he leapt ashore. Before he could do so there was a loud crack that sounded to him like the report of a pistol.
Simultaneously the quay appeared to recede from the yacht. Already the distance betweenthe two was too great for Craddock to leap. Then it suddenly dawned upon him.
"The yacht's adrift!" gasped Peter.
Absolutely certain that this was part of the stranger's scheme to smash up the Sea Scouts' yacht, Peter clambered into the bows. The part of the grass rope secured to the bits hung limply. ThePuffinwas swinging out with her bows pointing towards the opposite quay and with the tide boring furiously against her port side.
Kneeling, Peter fumbled for the chain. A distinct rasping sound told him that the anchor was playing false. Instead of holding, it was dragging.
Then came another disconcerting sound—the splintering of wood from right aft. The warp on the port quarter had wrenched the cleat to which it was secured, from its fastenings.
Back swung the yacht head to tide, but the anchor still refused to "bite." Having started to drag it continued to do so. Soon the yacht was abreast of the pier-head and about twenty yards from it. In a few minutes she would be swept by the surging ebb right out into the English Channel.
"I mustgive her more chain," decided Peter, aware of a violent hammering on the cabin doors, but paying no heed to the clamouring of the prisoner to be let out.
It was an easy matter to cast off the turns of the chain round the bitts. With a rush and a rattle the links ran out, until Craddock decided that he had given enough scope.
But when it came to checking and securing the cable, well, that was a very different matter. Vainly Peter tried to secure the rapidly running chain, for the anchor had now obtained a firm hold. Fathom after fathom rattled through the fairlead.
This state of things did not trouble Peter. He knew that the anchor was holding this time, and that the inboard end of the chain was shackled to an eyeplate in the keelson. Sooner or later the yacht would bring up, and then he could await the return of Mr. Grant and the rest of the Sea Scouts before attempting to move thePuffinback to her former berth.
But alas for these reassuring thoughts. The yacht—eight tons dead weight moving at a good three knots—snubbed violently. There was a disconcerting jerk that almost threw Peter overboard, and the next instant he caught a glimpse of the tail-end of the cable disappearing over the bows. The violent jerk had wrenched apart the shackle that ought to have held the chain to the eyebolt, and thePuffin, unfettered, was utterly at the mercy of the tide.
Craddock kept his head. Although realising his very awkward and possibly dangerous position he was not one to get into a state of panic because he found himself drifting out to sea.
It was useless to hail, since there was no one on either quay. Nor would it be of any use hoisting sails since there was not the faintest breath of wind. The sweeps were useless against the three-knot current. There was the motor, but in the present circumstances it was a "broken reed."
In order to start it up it was necessary to go below to turn on the petrol and make the usual adjustments, and the cabin through which Peter would have to pass to gain the motor-room was in the possession of the armed rascal who was responsible for the present predicament.
By this time Peter was unpleasantly awarethat it was still raining in torrents and that he was without an oilskin. During the excitement occasioned by the yacht breaking adrift he had hardly noticed the downpour. Now that the strenuous period of activity was over, the rain felt horribly cold as it beat down upon his unprotected head.
"She won't drift very far," thought Craddock. "The tide doesn't run so hard outside, and Mr. Grant ought to be back by now. He'll be bound to see the riding-light."
"Open that door, you silly young ass!" exclaimed the imprisoned man angrily. "A joke's a joke in a way, but this is a bit too thick."
Peter ignored the request. It recalled a very similar speech by the bogus Scoutmaster. Apparently the man had opened the cabin scuttle and had seen that the yacht was drifting out of the harbour.
The teak panels creaked under the pressure of his shoulders.
"Stop that!" said Peter sternly. "If you burst open those doors I'll hit you over the head with the winch-lever."
"What for, you silly owl?" expostulated the captive. "Don't play the fool any longer. You've lost your anchor and cable—I know that—but the pair of us ought to be able to get the yacht back. Come on, now, open that door."
"I will when Mr. Grant comes on board—not before," replied Craddock resolutely. "You wait. He won't be very long."
The prisoner made no audible reply.
Peter then prepared to keep his vigil as best he could in the uncomfortable circumstances. From the sail-locker in the cockpit he pulled out the spitfire jib, the thick canvas of which afforded tolerable protection from the rain. Then, gazing shorewards, he watched the slowly receding lights of Sablesham until they were blotted out in the watery atmosphere.
"Looks like making a night of it," he thought. "ThePuffinis like a needle in a haystack in this downpour. By jove! I'd forgotten the dinghy," he added, as the slight dipping of the yacht caused the bowsprit-end to hit the gunwhale of her little tender.
Throwing aside the protecting sail Peter went for'ard, clambered along the bowsprit and dropped into the dinghy. Unbending the painter and sternfast, he brought the boat alongside and made her fast to the yacht's shrouds. This done, he returned to the cockpit.
The cabin clock struck eight bells.
"Midnight already," thought Peter. "Wonder what Mr. Grant and the other fellows are doing?"
He drew a mental picture of the Scoutmaster and seven drenched Sea Scouts standing disconsolately upon the deserted quay, and wondering where their floating home with its comfortable bunks had gone.
A few minutes later the yacht's keel grated gently upon a gravelly bottom. The dinghy, hitherto drifting alongside, swung round until brought up by the full scope of the painter.
"We're aground!" exclaimed Peter, stating what was an obvious and accomplished fact.
"Half-ebb,"he continued, musingly to himself. "She won't float much before six or seven. It'll be broad daylight by then. I wonder where we are? Can't see any sign of land. It's lucky there's no sea on. She won't hurt; that's one blessing. Wonder what that fellow's doing in the cabin? I'll see."
Carefully Craddock approached the still open skylight. Looking down through the smoke-laden atmosphere of the cabin he saw that the captive was calmly lying at full length on the starboard settee and was seemingly deep in the pages of Peter's favourite paper.
On the swing table was a cigarette case and a spirit flask. The occupant of the cabin appeared to be very happy! Rather ruefully the Sea Scout compared his own position with the comfortable surroundings in which his prisoner was taking things so easily.
"He won't enjoy himself when the yachtbegins to heel," thought Peter. "She's bound to lie right over when the tide leaves her."
Even as he watched, Craddock saw the man bring his hand up to his forehead and slide helplessly upon the cabin floor, groaning dismally as he did so.
In an instant Peter's feelings towards the fellow changed. Up to the present he had treated him as a dangerous character, now he regarded him only as a human being in distress.
"He's ill—very ill," thought the Sea Scout. "I'll do what I can to render First-Aid, and while I'm about it I may as well relieve him of that revolver."
Without hesitation Craddock unlocked the padlock and flung open the doors. Nimbly descending the companion ladder he gained the cabin.
As he did so a hand shot out and grasped him firmly by the shoulder.
"Now, young man!" exclaimed the stranger briskly. "I've done you this time. What's your explanation?"
Peter gaped at his captor. The man had scored by a ruse. He was smiling grimly as he gripped the lad's shoulder.
"Like firing on the white flag, eh?" continued the man. "Couldn't be helped. You wouldn't listen to reason. You thought I wasreading. I wasn't. Your Scoutmaster's shaving-mirror came in very handy. But isn't it time to knock off fooling? The yacht's aground. If we don't get her off she'll be matchwood before morning."
This solicitude for thePuffintook Craddock completely by surprise.
"She's all right," he protested. "There's no wind and the sea's calm."
"All right so far," corrected the other. "You jolly well ought to know better than that. A windless rain is invariably followed by a very hard blow. Look at the glass—fallen three-tenths since it was last set. That's enough warning. What possessed you to cast off the warps?"
"Cast off the warps?" repeated Craddock. "I didn't. That was your work."
"Rot!" commented the stranger. "But explanations can come later. Time's precious. Get that engine running as sharp as you can. We may be too late as it is."
Meekly Peter dived into the motor-room. Since the other fellow was top-dog at present, it would be wise to humour him. In any case it was worth trying to get the yacht afloat, especially as there was a strong possibility of a gale springing up.
"She's ready," announced Craddock, emerging from the engine-room. "I'll have to start her up from the cockpit."
"Good!" ejaculated the stranger. "There's a reversing propeller, I hope?"
"Reverse gear," corrected Peter.
The pair went on deck. It had ceased to rain. Overhead the stars were shining brightly, but away to the south'ard a bank of dark clouds with jagged edges betokened the approach of the predicted storm.
Two miles to the nor'east glimmered the harbour lights of Sablesham—a sight that surprised Peter considerably. He had been under the impression that thePuffinhad drifted to the east'ard. Instead she had drifted to the sou'west, and was now aground on the Tinker Shoal.
But there was no time to be lost. The motor fired at the first swing. Craddock put the reverse lever hard back. Frothy water swirled past the yacht's sides from stern to stem, but although thePuffintrembled under the pulsations of the motor she showed no sign of slipping off into deeper water.
"She's on," declared the stranger. "Mind your head."
He sprang aft, uncleated the main-sheet and removed the boom-crutch. The boom, together with the gaff and snowed mainsail, was now held only by the topping-lift. With a heave the boom was swung out until it was nearly at right angles to the side.
"Get outside the shrouds and shake her,"commanded the stranger briskly. "I'll bear a hand with the sweep."
Listing under the uneven balance of the heavy boom, and with Peter's weight hanging over the side, thePuffinlay well down until her rail was within a foot of the water. At the same time the stranger, standing in the bows, thrust with all his might at the end of a fifteen-feet oar, while the motor was racing at full speed astern.
"She's moving," panted the stranger.
Peter could hear the metal keel grating over the gravel—slowly but surely.
Once or twice the yacht held up, but the detention was only temporary.
"She's off!" shouted the stranger, putting down the sweep and coming aft. "I'll take the helm. Keep her going astern for a bit."
Not until thePuffinwas well clear of the dangerous shoal did Peter receive the order, "Full ahead."
Round swung the yacht. Craddock watched with eager eyes to see what course the helmsman would take, until to his unspoken relief Peter saw that thePuffinwas heading straight for Sablesham Harbour,
At10 p.m. Scoutmaster Grant and his seven Sea Scouts began their five-mile tramp to Sablesham. The rain was descending in torrents. Behind them were the sizzling embers of the Lydiard Scouts' camp-fire. The sing-song had been a tremendous success, and it was not until the guests had partaken of refreshment that the rain came on in earnest.
It took more than a torrential downpour to damp the spirits of the Sea Scouts. Their clothing was saturated. They had no oilskins with them. Water squelched in their shoes at every step. It was pitch-dark, and the road was almost ankle-deep in chalky mud. Yet they whistled blithely.
An hour and ten minutes later they were crossing the swing-bridge. From there it was impossible to see more than a couple of hundred yards. The furthermost of the gas lamps were blotted out in the watery atmosphere. "Nearly there!" exclaimed Mr. Grant. "Thank goodness we'll have a dry roof overour heads. Craddock will be wondering why we are late. I wonder if——"
He broke off abruptly.
The mast and riding-light of thePuffinought by this time to be visible. They were not.
Mr. Grant said nothing. He hoped that his eyesight was playing him false, but he doubted it.
"She's gone, sir!" corroborated Brandon.
"Harbour master's shifted her, perhaps," suggested the Scoutmaster, quickening his pace.
ThePuffin'sberth was empty. There was her bow warp still made fast to a bollard. Hauling in the rope the Sea-Scouts made the discovery that it had parted—the frayed ends showing no sign of having been cut by a knife.
A further search revealed the sternfast. In this case the rope was intact, but at one end was a wooden cleat with screws attached.
"She's broken adrift," exclaimed the Patrol-leader. "What's the anchor doing?"
"We'll go to the pier-head and see if we can spot the yacht," said Mr. Grant. "Craddock must have heard the yacht parting her warps, even if he were asleep in the cabin. Perhaps he brought up round the corner."
But no. Seaward there was nothing but an ill-defined expanse of dark water and hissing rain.
"Back to the swing-bridge, lads!" exclaimed the Scoutmaster. "Keep a look-out in case thePuffin'salongside the opposite quay."
The bridge-keeper on being questioned was emphatic that no yacht had passed through, and that he had only once opened the bridge that night, to admit a Norwegian timber ship.
"Then there's only one thing to be done," declared Mr. Grant. "We'll have to find a boat and look for Craddock outside."
It was no easy matter to find a boat with oars in her. There were several small craft lying above the bridge, but in each case they were without gear—a fact that pointed silently to the weaknesses of a certain class of Sablesham longshoremen.
"We'll have to knock up one of the boatmen," decided Mr. Grant. "Come on, this way."
It was a long, tedious business. The bridge-keeper furnished the addresses of two or three men who let out boats. Finding them was no easy matter in the ill-lighted streets.
The first house they called at proved a blank. Either the occupier didn't or wouldn't hear the Scoutmaster's knock. At the second the owner opened an upper window and in husky accents bade his visitors, "Clear out, or I'll loose my dawg on yer!"
The third attempt proved successful, although it was quite twenty minutes before the boatman could be prevailed upon to dress and lead the way to the store where he kept his gear. Then the boat had to be baled out, for the heavy rain had filled it almost level with the thwarts, and a second visit had to be made to the store, since the rowlocks provided were too big for that particular craft.
The hour of midnight was striking as the Sea Scouts pushed off in their borrowed boat.
"Give way, lads," ordered Mr. Grant. "Nothing like a little exertion on a wet night."
Knowing the set of the tides, the Scoutmaster felt pretty hopeful that he could pick up the drifting yacht. He was still hoping that Craddock had paid out more chain and that thePuffinwould be found brought up within a mile of the entrance to the harbour.
But when the boat gained the open sea Mr. Grant did not feel quite so optimistic. Even at a short distance the harbour lights looked dim. Seaward not a glimmer of any description was visible.
For the best part of forty minutes the Sea Scouts pulled steadily. The boat was heavy and beamy, but the lads by double banking three of the four oars, kept her going at a steady pace.
"We'll go back," decided Mr. Grant. "She doesn't appear to be anywhere this way.The rain's easing a bit. We may be able to see better presently."
"Light right astern, sir!" reported Brandon, almost as soon as the boat's head was turned in the direction of Sablesham.
Mr. Grant looked over his shoulder.
"Your eyesight's better than mine, Brandon," he remarked. "What sort of light?"
"White, sir."
Ten minutes later Brandon gave a whoop of joy.
"It's thePuffin, sir," he announced. "I know the bark of the motor."
No explanations were asked or given until thePuffin, with two boats towing astern, brought up in a secure berth in Sablesham Harbour.
There, in the cosy cabin, Scoutmaster and Sea Scouts crowded to hear the story of thePuffin'sadventures.
"Here's my card, Mr. Grant," said the stranger. "Mr. Ulysses Paynton, of the firm of Paynton and Small, the underwriters of the s.s.Getalong. Apparently the bright youth took me for an undesirable acquaintance; but we've squared that up, haven't we, Craddock?"
"It was your revolver, sir, that confirmed my suspicions."
"Revolver?" inquired Mr. Paynton. "I haven't one."
Then he laughed whole-heartedly, and drew from his pocket a steel spanner.
"Had to make an adjustment to my car," he explained, "and absent-mindedly I put the spanner into my hip pocket. So that's that. But you'll be wondering why I called to see you, Mr. Grant. I motored down to Aberstour, and finding you were at Sablesham I came on here. That made me late. My firm wished to pay a slight acknowledgment to your Sea Scouts for the work in salving the s.s.Getalong, which, you will remember, was scuttled by her captain some time ago. Will you please accept this?"
"This" was a packet of Bank of England notes to the value of fifty pounds.
"Whereare we making for, Negus?" inquired Patrol-leader Frank Brandon, as the fishing smackFrolicwith triced-up tack, reefed foresail and small jib, threshed her way out of Aberstour Harbour.
The old fisherman, usually a man of few words, gave a glance to wind'ard before replying.
"Silverknoll Bank," he answered. "We might find a few sole up-along. Fish be tur'ble scarce—none of us fisherfolk can quite make out why 'tes. Last week—when my boy Jim broke 'is arm, the oldFrolicgybing accidental-like—we was down along the Five Fathom Bank, and we ne'er got so much as a bucket o' fish. So I thought I'd just try the Silverknoll. Bowse down that there tack, you might."
Brandon quickly carried out the order of his temporary skipper, then sitting on the weather waterways, he took stock of his surroundings.
TheFrolicwas an old boat, probably almost as ancient as her grey-haired owner, but she had a reputation for weatherliness that had been gained in many a hard fight against winter gales. She was roughly thirty feet in length, and with a beam of ten feet, her draught being four feet six inches.
She was decked in as far as the mast, a small fo'c'sle providing sleeping accommodation, if necessary, for a couple of hands. An open well extended from the mast to within five feet of the transom, the latter space being occupied by a self-draining tray.
Outside ballast she had none, her stability being assured by the weight of nearly five tons of stones packed under the floorboards. She was cutter-rigged, with a loose-footed mainsail, and in spite of her "dead" ballast she rode the waves like a duck.
It was Brandon's first experience of a trip on a fishing smack. The novelty of it appealed to him, coupled with the knowledge that he was doing a Good Turn to old Negus by bearing a hand with the heavy gear.
For the present there was nothing much to be done. Brandon was at liberty to sit and watch the coast as the harbour piers of Aberstour faded away on the port quarter. He revelled in the salt-laden breeze, but one sniff warned him of the risk he ran of sheltering under the weather coaming.
TheFrolicreeked abominably. There was no denying the fact. Her open well emanated odours of bait that was long past the "high" stage, mingled with the reek of fish, decaying seaweed and mussel-shells, the whole variety of perfumes being toned down by the pungent smell of tar.
"Suppose I'll get used to it," thought Brandon dubiously. "Negus seems to have thrived on it."
There was secret admiration in Brandon's mind as he glanced at the stolid face of the hale and hearty fisherman, who, notwithstanding his three score and ten years, was as active as many a man half his age, and looked strong in muscles and sinews.
The Silverknoll Bank lay about fifteen miles east of Aberstour and about two and a half miles from Broken Point, the nearest land.
It was what was known as uncertain ground—the fishermen could never rely upon a steady catch. Sometimes the trawl would be full of fine soles; at others the result of a hard night's work would be so small as to render the trip unprofitable, and sometimes not sufficient to pay for the wear and tear of the gear.
But the perplexing part of the business was this: where did the fish go? There was no other sandy patch for miles, and since flat fish rarely desert their favourite ground and almost invariably give rocky bottoms a wide berth, theunaccountable coming and going of the soles was a mystery.
Close hauled on the starboard it took theFrolica good three hours to arrive at the spot Negus had chosen for the casting of the net. By this time the sun had set and a slight mist was stealing seawards from the low-lying land.
"Mun' wait a-while," remarked the old fisherman. "Tide don't carve yet. We'll overrun yon trawl. Mind you be careful as we're shootin' it an' don't go overboard with it."
"I'll try not to," replied Brandon. "A fellow wouldn't stand much chance mixed up with that lot."
"He might," continued theFrolic'sowner. "I call to mind when I wur a young man—twixt fifty an' sixty year agone—I knowed a boy what was carried overboard in the pocket of the trawl. Twenty minutes 'e wur under water—p'raps more, sartainly no less."
"He was drowned, of course," said Brandon.
Old Negus chortled.
"Drownded—not much," he declared. "They got 'im out an' scrubbed him wi' salt till 'e wur as red as a oiled lobster. Same arternoon 'e wur a-playin' about right as ninepence. That's a solemn fact. Howsomever, tide's about right now. Over with 'em."
Brandon now took the tiller, while his eldercompanion dived into the fo'c'sle to tend the coke stove and also to fill and light his blackened clay pipe.
It was an ideal night, warm and with just sufficient wind to take the fishing boat over the ground in spite of the drag of the net.
TheFrolicapparently had the Silverknoll to herself, although at some miles distant could be discerned the port and masthead lights of a vessel proceeding up-channel.
A little later the lights vanished, owing to a bank of mist drifting towards the solitary fishing boat.
Presently Old Negus emerged from his retreat and peered landwards. There were no marks so far as Brandon could make out; but evidently the old fisherman knew exactly where he was.
"End o' bank," he announced. "Up with yon trawl."
It was tedious work. By dint of their united efforts, the net came home foot by foot, copiously shedding moisture and seaweed, until the "bag," heavy and bulky, showed just below the surface.
"We've got a good haul this time, Negus," declared Brandon.
The old fisherman shook his head.
"Weed, mos' like," he rejoined. "Mind yon otter-board. It be fairish heavy."
When the catch was examined it was found to consist mainly of sand and seaweed. But half a dozen medium-sized soles and a couple of dabs rewarded their efforts.
"There's summat about to-night," decided Old Negus, as he set up the peak of the mainsail. "We'm still main early."
With flattened sheets theFrolicbeat to wind'ard until she gained a position favourable to shooting the trawl again. It was now close on midnight. The mist was thickening, although it was possible to discern objects a quarter of a mile away.
"Take her, lad," said Old Negus, when the trawl was trailing astern. "I'll make a drop o' cocoa. 'Twill be main acceptable, I'll allow."
Once more the old fisherman disappeared under the foredeck, leaving Brandon at the helm.
The Patrol-leader's back and arms were aching, his wet fingers were almost raw with the chafe of the sandy ropes, notwithstanding the fact that he rather prided himself upon the horny state of his hands.
He was beginning to realise that a fisherman's life, even on a calm night, was not "all honey." He tried to imagine what it would be like on a boisterous night, with the canvas board hard with frozen spray.
Presently Brandon's ears caught the faintsounds of an engine throbbing. He peered in the direction from which the steady pulsations came, fully expecting to see the navigation lights of a vessel.
He saw none. The noise of the approaching craft became steadily louder and louder.
"Negus!" he shouted. "There's a steamer coming towards us."
The old man emerged from the fo'c'sle and peered into the darkness.
"Oh—ay!" he exclaimed. "Sure she be. There she be, broad on our starboard beam. No lights nor nothin'."
Brandon looked but could see nothing. Usually quick at seeing things he was now hopelessly beaten by the eyes of the ancient fisherman.
Snatching up a lantern from the fo'c'sle, Negus waved it above his head. It was just possible that theFrolic'sgreen light might not be visible to the look-out on board the approaching steamer. Unless the watch on board were asleep they could hardly fail to notice the waving white light.
"What be them up to?" exclaimed Old Negus querulously. "They'll be atop o' we in a brace o' shakes."
Brandon could now discern the misty outlines of the vessel. She was very nearly bows-on, a ghostly mass gliding slowly through the water without showing the faintest glimmer.
"Ahoy!" bawled Negus, waving the lantern with increased vigour.
"She's altering helm," announced Brandon, who in his anxiety had allowed theFrolicto come up a good four points.
"But our nets!" ejaculated Old Negus. "Up helm."
Thirty seconds later the vessel—a large steam drifter cut the wake of theFrolicat less than twenty feet from the latter's transom. There was a sudden jerk. The rope of the otter trawl parted as the vessel's stern fouled the nets. A chorus of mocking laughter came from the drifter's decks.