"Thehound!" ejaculated Old Negus angrily, as he made a jump for theFrolic'stiller. "Furriners they be poachers. Up for'ard, lad, and when I gives the word, let go the anchor."
Unable to realise the meaning of the skipper's order Brandon clambered on to the foredeck. Steadying himself by the forestay with one hand he lifted the anchor, already stocked, with the other.
Then he waited, hanging on like grim death as theFrolicpitched and plunged in the bow-wave of the steamer.
Putting the helm hard down Old Negus threw theFrolicinto the wind. Relieved of the drag of the trawl she answered her helm so readily that she cut the drifter's track close under the latter's counter.
"Let go!" yelled Old Negus.
Splash went the anchor. Fathom after fathom of chain ran out until Brandon got the word to belay.
A succession of jerks announced that the anchor was obtaining a series of temporary and insecure holds. Then Brandon grasped the situation.
The anchor was ripping the drifter's nets.
"Come aft!" shouted Old Negus. "There'll be a tur'ble jerk when the hook brings up agen her trawl-beam."
"The fat's in the fire with a vengeance this time," thought Frank, as he leapt into the well. "I wonder what will happen now?"
He was not left long in doubt. Although the drifter was making a bare three knots owing to the drag of a fifty feet beam and a ton or more of nets, the sudden strain as theFrolic'sanchor jammed against the trawl-beam well-nigh capsized Brandon.
Round swung theFrolic, towed by the craft that had so deliberately cut away Old Negus's gear.
"Belgian or Frenchie, that's what she be," declared the old fisherman. "Poachin' inside the three-mile limit. Now us knows why there bain't much fish on the Silverknoll Bank."
"What are we going to do now?" asked Brandon rather anxiously.
"Do?" repeated Old Negus. "Jus' hang on till daylight, if needs must. If they cut their trawl adrift then we'll collar it. Fairexchange it'll be. If not, they can tow us till they're fair fed up. Wish I could see 'er name."
"I've a torch in my haversack," announced Brandon. "Thought it might come in handy."
By this time the crew of the drifter had made the disconcerting discovery that the insignificant English fishing boat whose nets they had wantonly cut was now playing havoc with their gear.
A volley of abuse was directed upon theFrolic, together with a command to "Cut ze hawsair or ve sink you."
The beam of Brandon's torch played upon the drifter. On her counter, showing up distinctly in the bright light, were the words, "Marie-Celeste, Ostende." Over the taffrail were half a dozen men gesticulating and shouting.
"Signal ashore," said Old Negus. "P'raps coastguards over agin Broken Point'll spot it."
Brandon needed no second bidding. Rapidly he Morsed a message stating the plight of theFrolic, and requesting assistance.
The Belgians broke into another and more vigorous howl of anger at seeing the dots and dashes. Old Negus laughed as light-heartedly as a boy.
"They dursn't go astern," he observed."'Fraid of fouling their propeller, they be. An' they don't want to cut adrift their gear. We've got 'em fixed, boy."
"I hope so," agreed Brandon, fired by the enthusiasm and doggedness of his companion.
The drifter's next manoeuvre was to put her helm hard a-port. Hitherto she had been standing in towards the land and was already within a mile and a half of Broken Point. Unless she swung round through at least eight or ten points she would soon be aground in shoal water.
But Old Negus had anticipated this change. Directly the Belgian ported helm he ported, with the result that theFrolictook a wide sheer to starboard.
Impeded by the drag of her gear and the additional resistance offered by the fishing smack, theMarie-Celestesimply would not answer to her helm.
The crew, beginning to realise that they had caught a Tartar, were frantic with rage.
"Keep on a-signalling," ordered Old Negus. "Happen you can't see no light ashore?"
Brandon had to confess that up to the present his signals were unanswered.
Just then theMarie-Celeste'sengine-room telegraph bell clanged. After a brief interval her propeller ceased to revolve. Quickly she lost way.
TheFrolic, still holding on, decreased her distance to about fifty yards.
"What——?" began the Patrol-leader, but Old Negus held up his hand.
"Listen!" he exclaimed.
They could hear unmistakable sounds of a boat being swung out from the Belgian drifter. The squeaking of the davits as they were turned outboard, the rattle of the fall-blocks and the clatter of oars being shifted as one of the men fumbled for the plug, told their own tale.
"Boy!" exclaimed Old Negus. "Me an' you's going to make a fight for it."
"Righto!" agreed Brandon.
Frank Brandonwas surprised at his own coolness. Beyond a peculiar sensation somewhere in the region of his belt he felt calm and collected. Essentially of a peaceable nature, it was the dastardly action of the Belgian fishermen that had roused his ire.
He realised that if it came to blows it would be an unequal contest in point of numbers. As far as theFrolic'screw were concerned there could be no retreat should things go badly with them.
Quickly Old Negus laid out the weapons for defence—a boathook, a small axe, a hammer and a few stones hurriedly removed from the ballast. Then he dived into the fo'c'sle.
"Cocoa's hot," he announced. "We'll see 'ow them Belgians like it. An' I've just a-put the poker in the fire."
Then they waited in silence for the approach of the foe.
The drifter's boat was lowered. The crew of theFrolicheard the thud of the disengagedlower blocks against the vessel's iron sides. A gutteral order and the oars dropped.
Brandon grasped the boathook.
"Anglais!" shouted a voice from theMarie-Celeste'sboat. "Take in ze anchor an' go' vay, den ve gif you five poun'."
No answer.
"Ve gif seven poun'," persisted the man in a wheedling voice. "An' a leetle cask of ze rum."
Still no answer.
"A ver' big, goot cask of ze rum, zen," continued the Belgian. "Ve hafe eet in ze boat, see. Ver' goot rum an' seven poun'."
The dogged silence on the part of theFrolic'screw rather puzzled the Belgians. They took advantage of the delay to paddle a few strokes until their boat was within ten yards of the fishing smack's quarter.
Then Old Negus broke the silence.
"Sheer off!" he shouted. "Or we'll stave in your boat."
"Vat you mean—stave in, eh?" demanded the spokesman.
"You three chaps keep below till I give the word," said Old Negus, addressing a purely imaginary crew.
"Ve is nine," announced the spokesman of the boat's crew with the air of one holding the winning ace.
"Keep off!" was Old Negus's only rejoinder. "Drat they coastguard chaps," he added in a lower tone. "Them's all asleep. Keep on signallin', boy."
"Can't much longer," replied Brandon, "The battery of my torch is running down. Look out!"
The warning was just in time, for the boat of theMarie-Celestehad edged nearer, sufficiently to enable the bowman to deliver a blow with a fifteen feet ash oar.
It missed the old fisherman by a few inches. Negus's reply was to hurl a stone, that landed with a dull thud. A yell of pain was ample evidence that the missile had struck one of the boat's crew.
The next instant the boat was alongside. Four or five men, some armed with knives, others with cudgels, leapt upon the foredeck of theFrolic.
A well-directed thrust with the boathook enabled Brandon to reduce the number by one. The fellow, wildly pawing the air, tumbled backwards, falling between the fishing smack and the boat.
Before Brandon could make another lunge a powerful hand grasped the boathook. Instantly the Patrol-leader dropped the stave, seized a hatchet, and with the back of the steel head dealt a sweeping blow at the legs of the fellow who had gained possession of the boathook.
image: 05_reduce.jpg{Illustration: "A WELL-DIRECTED THRUST ENABLED BRANDON TO REDUCE THE NUMBER BY ONE."[P. 108}
Down went the Belgian, dragging another with him, the two falling upon the man who had previously been "ditched." Their combined weight and bulk sent the boat a good five yards from the smack; while the two men left on theFrolic'sfore-deck, finding their retreat cut off, promptly leapt overboard.
"That's settled 'em!" exclaimed Old Negus triumphantly. "Eh? What be the matter wi' your head, boy?"
"Only a scratch," replied Brandon, hardly aware of the fact that blood was trickling from a cut in the centre of his forehead.
But the old fisherman was wrong in his surmise. The assailants, having pulled the swimmers into their boat, were returning to the attack.
Undeterred by half a dozen stones hurled by the crew of theFrolic, the poachers again rowed towards the smack, the bowman protecting himself by holding up a large triangular grating. By this time it was evident that they were aware of the actual number of theFrolic'screw, and confident in a four-to-one superiority they sought to end the encounter by a determined rush.
In a trice Old Negus dashed into the fo'c'sle, emerging with a huge iron saucepan filled with boiling water.
"Stand clear, boy!" he exclaimed warningly; then with a sweep of his sinewy arm hehurled the saucepan and its scalding contents into the midst of the attackers in the bow of the boat.
Yells and screams of agony burst from the tortured men. Oars trailed aimlessly alongside, as they relinquished them to hold their hands to their blistering faces.
The boat, still carrying way, glided under theFrolic'sstern, a thrust with one of the smack's sweeps sending her clear.
This time the would-be boarders had had more than enough. Groaning and yelling, they managed to row back to theMarie-Celeste.
Ten minutes passed without any further communication between theFrolicand theMarie-Celeste. Then a voice, plaintively apologetic, came from the poop of the Belgian drifter:—
"Anglais! Ve gif twenty-five pours' if you pull in ze anchor."
"Make it fifty while you'm about it," replied Old Negus. "'Twon't make no difference. Here we bide."
Nevertheless, the skipper of theFrolicbegan to feel a bit anxious, for during the encounter theMarie-Celeste'shead had fallen off and now lay with the land broad on her port beam. It was quite possible that if she went ahead again she might be able to steam beyond the all-important "three-mile limit."
"Ver' well," continued the Belgian, who had now observed the altered state of affairs. "Ve back to Ostende go. On ze voyage we cut an' buoy ze trawl; zen we sink you."
Which was exactly what Old Negus feared. In the darkness the helplessFroliccould be sunk without a trace, since even if she slipped her cable, she would be at the mercy of the powerful steam drifter.
"It's no use your tryin' that," he shouted brazenly. "We've telled the coastguards, an' there's a gunboat on her way already. Wish she wur," he added under his breath.
The next instant the drifter and theFrolicwere bathed in a dazzling white light.
Brandon gave a cheer. At the opportune moment, help was at hand.
ThePatrol-leader could only surmise that the searchlight came from a British warship. It was impossible to discern the source of that blinding beam or to form any idea of the distance from which it came.
Then through the night came a crisp order:
"Away sea-boat's crew!"
The steady plash of oars and the creaking of crutches announced the approach of the warship's boat. Presently she swung athwart the dazzling beam, the crew outlined in silver as they bent to the pliant oars.
"Way 'nough—in bow."
Right alongside theMarie-Celesteswung the boat. Lithe, active bluejackets swarmed up the drifter's rusty sides. Loud, excited protests on the part of the foreigners were checked by a stern order that they were under arrest.
"Smack ahoy!" hailed an unmistakable English voice.
"Ay, ay, sir!" shouted Old Negus in reply
"Are you foul of this fellow's trawl?"
"Ay," replied the old fisherman grimly. "'Twas what I meant to do."
"Righto! Clear your gear and carry on. When do you think you'll make Aberstour?"
"Soon as we can," declared Old Negus.
"Shout when you're clear, then," continued the boarding officer. "We want to haul in this fellow's trawl and be taken in tow."
It was a tricky job disentangling theFrolic'sanchor from the beam of the trawl, but, aided by the smack's winch, the task was accomplished.
With a fair tide and steady head wind theFrolicbeat homeward. Before long the destroyer overtook her with theMarie-Celestein tow.
"I'll be gettin' a new otter trawl out o' she," remarked Old Negus, jerking his thumb in the direction of the captured drifter. "T'old 'un was a bit shaky," he added with a grin. "But it fair beats me to know 'ow that there destroyer came up just when she were wanted."
* * * * *
It was not until the following day that the question was answered.
Brandon and Old Negus had to attend court as witnesses against the crew of theMarie-Celeste. Then it came out that thecoastguards had picked up Brandon's signals, but very wisely they refrained from answering them lest the poachers should take alarm.
The coastguards immediately telephoned to the Divisional Headquarters at Aberstour. The fishery protection gunboat was away, her position by wireless being given as eighty miles sou'-sou'-west of her port.
Clearly she was too far away, even at her speed of twenty-two knots, to be on the scene in time; so Aberstour sent out a general wireless call, which was picked up by the destroyerSeagull, which was on her way from Portsmouth to Sheerness, and at the time was only eleven miles from the Silverknoll Bank. Thirty-five minutes after receiving the message theSeagullhad captured theMarie-Celeste.
Caught red-handed the Belgians were fined £200 and their gear confiscated. Old Negus received £50 compensation for the deliberate destruction of his trawl, and Patrol-leader Brandon was highly complimented for his part in the capture of the poachers:
More than that, the mystery of the scarcity of fish on the Silverknoll Bank was satisfactorily cleared up, since foreign drifters no longer run the risk of trawling within the three-mile limit off that part of the coast.
"Wouldyou like a roving commission Peter?" asked Scoutmaster Grant.
"Yes, rather, sir," replied Peter Craddock. "What is it?"
The Otters were off duty. That is to say they had to "remain on the beach" while the Aberstour Sea Scouts yacht went away on a cruise with the Seals. ThePuffinwas ready to get under way and was only awaiting Mr. Grant's arrival before slipping her moorings.
"A week afloat," replied the Scoutmaster. "I've seen your people and explained matters. You noticed that ketch yacht that came in last evening?"
"TheThetis, sir?"
"Yes, her owner is an old friend of mine, although I didn't recognise him until he made himself known this morning. He is in a bit of a hole and he came to me to know if the Aberstour Sea Scouts could help him out. I said I thought they could."
"We'll have a jolly good shot at it, anyway, sir," exclaimed Peter.
"The difficulty is this," resumed Mr. Grant. "My friend, Mr. Clifton, is cruising. He left Burnham-on-Crouch last Monday with a paid hand as crew. Unfortunately, or perhaps it may turn out fortunately, the crew proved unsatisfactory, so much so that Mr. Clifton discharged him at Otherport and came on to Aberstour single-handed. He tried at both places to obtain another paid hand, but as you know the fishing season is on. When he heard that we ran a fairly smart Troop of Sea Scouts here and that I happened to be Scoutmaster he suggested that I might find a reliable lad to go with him. I hinted that perhaps he might take all the Otter Patrol, but when I told him that there were eight of them he drew the line at that."
"'Then he missed something, sir," declared Craddock.
"But he was quite willing to have two Sea Scouts," continued Mr. Grant. "I thought of Brandon and you, but Frank had promised to help Old Negus on the fishing-smackFrolic, because Jim Negus has broken his arm. So I fixed on Carline and you. Carline's on his way down. Report on board theThetisbefore twelve o'clock. Well, I must not keep the Seals waiting. Cheerio, Peter, and good luck."
Punctually at the appointed time, Peter Craddock and George Carline went on board theThetis, where they introduced themselves to the owner.
Mr. Clifton was a thin, wiry man of about thirty. He was not tall—Peter could give him a couple of inches—but he was full of energy and as active as a kitten. He was deeply sunburnt, while his bony hands were as hard as iron—characteristics of a yachtsman who gets the very best out of the pastime by taking an active part in the management of his own craft.
"I'll like that chap," thought Peter as the owner and skipper of theThetisshook hands.
"These are the fellows I want," decided Mr. Clifton, as he gave a swift, comprehensive glance at the two alert, well-set up Sea Scouts. "If appearances go for anything they know their job. Thank goodness they're wearing rubber shoes and not hob-nailed boots."
Viewed from the quayside theThetislooked very little larger than thePuffin. She was ketch-rigged, with roller headsails. All her canvas was tanned, thus doing away with the necessity of sail-covers. What little brasswork she had shone like gold, but as far as possible all the metal work was galvanized iron, Her cockpit was small, but owing toher beam and the narrowness of her raised cabin-top, there was plenty of deck space. She was whaler-sterned—a great advantage in a heavy following sea. On the port side was a pair of davits from which hung a dinghy fitted with an outboard motor. Every rope was neatly coiled, the decks were spotlessly clean, while the white enamel on her sides glistened in the sunlight.
"Come on board," said Mr. Clifton, "and see what you think of my little ship."
The Sea Scouts descended the ladder from the quay, for the tide was almost at the last of the ebb, and gained the deck. Down below the accommodation was much larger than on board thePuffin. There was a spacious saloon, with a motor neatly stowed away under the companion-ladder. Beyond that were two small sleeping cabins separated by an alley-way so narrow that a bulky man would have to turn sideways to make his way along. Next to the cabins was a galley, while right for'ard was a roomy fo'c'sle with a couple of folding cots, above wide locker seats.
Lying at full length on one of the seats was a massive sheepdog, who, finding the visitors were accompanied by his master, lazily wagged his stumpy tail.
"Let me introduce you to Rex," said Mr. Clifton. "Rex, old boy, these aren't ordinaryvisitors, so don't look as if you were bored stiff. 'Shun, salute!"
With an agility that seemed remarkable from such a shaggy, ponderous animal, the sheepdog sat up and brought his left paw up.
"That's right," exclaimed his master approvingly.
"Can you tell me," he continued, addressing the two Sea Scouts, "why a dog almost invariably 'shakes hands' with his left paw? I don't know."
The skipper glanced at his watch.
"Tide will be making to the west'ard in half an hour," he remarked. "We'll begin to get under way."
Evidently Rex knew what was meant, for he descended from his resting-place and scrambled up the ladder into the cockpit.
"Where are we making for, sir?" enquired Craddock.
"Winkhaven," replied Mr. Clifton. "It's only a twenty mile run. I generally pay a visit there every summer. Then on to Mapplewick—my home. Righto, get to work, lads."
"Are you using the motor, sir?" asked Carline.
"No," was the reply. "I never make use of it except when absolutely necessary. Now, carry on as if I were not here. Let me see how you can manage entirely by yourselves."
It was a big order. The Sea Scouts were absolutely new to the yacht, but it put them on their mettle, which was exactly what Mr. Clifton wanted.
He noted with satisfaction that they rolled the tyers neatly when they removed them, and that they both took care to coil away each halliard after they hoisted the main, mizzen and head sails. Sheltered by the high buildings fronting the quay, theThetislay with her canvas rippling in the light air, held only by the fore and aft warps.
"Let go for'ard," shouted Peter to his chum as he himself cast off the stern-rope. "Give her a fend off with the boat-hook."
Slowly the ketch gathered way. Craddock took the helm. A puff filled the towering canvas, and the water rippled under the yacht's forefoot.
"In fenders," ordered Craddock. "We're away."
Then with slacked-off sheets theThetisturned past the pier-heads and was soon curtseying to the wavelets of the open sea.
BothSea Scouts revelled in the experience. Nor was Mr. Clifton less delighted with the experiment. Provided his new crew kept up to their present form he could afford to congratulate himself upon having dismissed a drunken and untrustworthy paid hand in favour of two keen lads who already possessed a sound knowledge of seamanship.
Three hours later theThetisrounded the bar-buoy at the entrance to Winkhaven. Peter was rather sorry that the sea passage was over so soon. He was also rather disappointed at the appearance of Winkhaven—a wide expanse of land-locked water surrounded by low, treeless ground fringed with mud-banks. There was a quay and a collection of houses, but they lacked the picturesque aspect of either Aberstour or Sablesham.
"Do we bring up here, sir?" he enquired.
"No, we are going right up the river as far as we can go," replied Mr. Clifton. "It's a tidal river for nearly five miles, with a smalltown—Ravensholm—at the end. Edge her off a bit, Peter. There's a mud-spit extending a good ten yardsoutside that beacon."
Presently Craddock noticed a narrow gap in the shore that marked the mouth of Ravensholm River. Here the wind headed the yacht and theThetishad to make a number of short tacks.
It was exhilarating work beating to wind'ard in a stiff breeze, and for a considerable time both Sea Scouts had plenty to do to tend sheets, since Mr. Clifton had taken the helm.
Then the river took an abrupt turn. The wind was now abeam, and theThetistravelled fast, "full and bye." The land, too, was beginning to assume a hilly nature, with yellowish cliffs here and there where countless ages ago the river had cut a passage through.
On the banks were several people who regarded the yacht with considerable interest, since strangers who came to Ravensholm by water were few and far between.
To one of these, a burly bearded farmer, the skipper of theThetiswaved a greeting.
"Afternoon, Mr. Thorley," he shouted. "How are you?"
"Muddlin', thank you," was the reply. "Will you be wanting any milk tonight, sir?"
"Rather," shouted Mr. Clifton. "We'll be coming along as soon as we've moored up."
On glided the yacht past an ever-changing panorama. To port lay a snug red-tiled farm. On the ground in front, sloping down to the river, were between fifty and sixty sleek cows just in from the rich, grassy meadows. On the gentle rise of the hillside were fields heavy with golden wheat and barley waving in the breeze. Fat hay-ricks and long, rambling barns were visible behind the house, while ducks and geese were either swimming on the river or else grubbing amongst the sedges and reeds.
Another bend brought theThetisin sight of the little town of Ravensholm, nestling under the Norman church, the square tower of which, surmounted by a recently-added spire, was a landmark for miles around.
"Stand by to let go," ordered Mr. Clifton as a grey, seven-arched bridge appeared in sight. "There's only one spot where we can anchor here without taking ground at low water—and we don't want to do that."
For the next twenty minutes Craddock and Carline were far too busy to take stock of their surroundings, but when sails were stowed, and theThetismoored fore and aft they were able to enjoy a well-earned spell.
On the opposite side of the river was a modern glaring red-brick house that seemedaggressively foreign to the mellowed buildings that comprised the rest of the town. But it was not the house that attracted the Sea Scouts' attention—it was the squat, ungainly figure of a man standing on the lawn and staring fixedly at the yacht.
He was between fifty and sixty years of age. His face was fat, he appeared to have no neck. Rolls of adipose tissue puffed out his cheeks to such an extent that his eyes were scarcely visible. His complexion was of a dull, pasty-white hue, while his clothes hung on him like sacks.
"Why's that fellow staring so?" asked Peter.
"Looking at the yacht, I suppose," replied Carline.
"He's not: he's looking at us," declared Craddock. "Wonder if he knows Mr. Clifton?"
"Who's that? Another friend of mine?" exclaimed the skipper emerging from his cabin. "No, thanks," he continued after a brief inspection. "Never seen him before. All right, lads, let him look. We'll go below and have tea."
The crew of theThetiswere about half way through the meal when Peter put down his cup and sniffed.
"Something burning," he announced.
"By Jove! There is," agreed Mr. Clifton, getting up and disappearing into the fo'c'sle.
"No," he said, as he re-entered the cabin. "There's nothing smouldering there. I thought that perhaps the stove was still alight. See if everything's all right on deck, Carline."
Carline, who was sitting nearest the companion, went up the steps.
"It's a big bonfire, sir," he reported. "They're burning rubbish across the river."
The skipper went on deck. From the garden of the glaring red-bricked house dense clouds of vile-smelling smoke were drifting in the direction of theThetis, enveloping the yacht in a pall of acrid vapour.
"Our friend the pasty-faced gentleman evidently resents our presence," he remarked with a laugh. "Apparently he thinks he can smoke us out. He won't."
"Dirty trick," commented Peter.
"But it won't affect us," added Carline. "'There's not much smoke coming into the cabin. Besides, we've nearly finished tea."
Having completed the repast and cleared away, Mr. Clifton suggested a spell ashore.
"We'll give Rex a run," he added. "And I'll call at the post office in case there are any letters sent on for me."
The crew went ashore. On the bank were several people interested in the yacht and the now diminishing smoke-screen.
"Measly old gent that, sir," remarked onejerking his thumb in the direction of the cantankerous owner of the river-side property. "'Think 'e owns all Ravensholm 'e do. Drat'n; if 'e wur to fall in river this very minute I for one wouldn't fish 'im out."
The other onlookers supported this sentiment. Evidently Mr. Horatio Snodburry, the obnoxious individual under discussion, was far from being popular with his fellow-townsfolk.
At the post office, Mr. Clifton was handed three letters and a newspaper. These he thrust into his pocket for future perusal. Then by a circuitous route, including a visit to Mr. Thorley's farm for milk, the crew of theThetisreturned to the yacht.
There was still a knot of sightseers, dividing their attention between the strange craft and the vindictive old fellow across the river, who was still staring at the little yacht as if to mesmerise her out of existence.
"Excuse me, sir," courteously exclaimed a well-dressed individual standing on the bank. "Might I have a word with you?"
"Certainly," replied Mr. Clifton. "Come on board."
The gentleman accepted the invitation.
"My name is Brightwell," he announced. "I don't suppose that will interest you. What is more to the point is that I am a solicitor acting on behalf of Mr. Horatio Snodburry."
The skipper grinned cheerfully.
"Carry on, please," he said encouragingly.
"To be brief my client wants you to shift your berth lower down the river."
"Does he own the river?"
"Oh, no. But, you see, you are rather obstructing his view."
"Precisely," agreed Mr. Clifton dryly. "This, being a tidal river, is, I take it, under Admiralty jurisdiction. 'As far as the tide shall flow' is the proper phraseology. And I think you, as a legal man, will admit that no individual can possess or claim the sole right to a view."
"That is so," admitted Mr. Brightwell. "The law does not admit of such a thing, as a 'prescriptive right of view'. But my client insisted that I should press his claim, although I told him he hadn't a leg to stand on. Without people of that type," he added in a burst of confidence, "the legal profession would be very, very slack."
"We are not shifting our berth," declared Mr. Clifton. "For one thing, I object to attempted coercion to the extent of trying to smoke us out. For another, this is the only spot where my yacht can lie afloat at low water, and a berth that for several years I have occupied on every previous occasion."
The lawyer nodded approvingly.
"In the circumstances there is nothingfurther for me to say. I will report the result of my interview with you to my client," he said, and wishing Mr. Clifton good evening he went ashore.
"This is going to be exciting, lads," remarked the skipper. "I've heard of Mr. Horatio Snodburry, but I haven't been up against him before. We'll sit tight and enjoy the fun. By the bye, I mustn't forget to read my correspondence."
Mr. Clifton read the first letter, which was evidently of little importance. Then he ripped open the envelope of the second.
"Lads!" he exclaimed. "I've had bad news. My brother has been taken seriously ill. 'Fraid I must catch the first train home. Look here, will you do me a Good Turn? Stand by the yacht till I can get back. It won't be more than a few days. This is most unfortunate."
"Of course we will, sir," replied both Sea Scouts.
"That's the sort," said Mr. Clifton. "You've taken quite a load off my mind. There's a time-table in that rack over your head, Peter. Do you mind?"
Craddock handed Mr. Clifton the time-table. A hasty examination showed that there was a train at 7.15. It was now a quarter to seven.
"I can just do it," declared the skipper,hastily packing a small handbag. "Hope you'll have a good time. Sorry to leave you to the tender mercies of Mr. Horatio Snodburry. Here are a couple of pound notes for current expenses. Well, good-bye for the present and good luck. I know Rex will be quite safe with you."
The next moment he had gone, leaving the boys with mixed feelings as to what was to be the outcome of the report of the solicitor to his client, Mr. Horatio Snodburry.
Leftto themselves and with the big sheepdog as an entertaining companion, Craddock and Carline settled down to their new task. It was a decidedly novel experience to be "on their own" on a yacht in entirely strange surroundings.
After breakfast on the following morning, Peter went shopping, accompanied by Rex, who had accepted the Sea Scout as his temporary master without any apparent hesitation. According to his wont the big sheep-dog trotted on ahead, occasionally giving a backward glance to reassure himself that Peter was following.
Presently Rex turned the corner leading into the High Street. Twenty seconds later Peter followed, and nearly tripped over the prostrate form of Mr. Horatio Snodburry, who was reclining ungracefully on the pavement with a wretched-looking black dog hugged under one arm, while his right hand grasped a long cane.
Without hesitation Craddock assisted the man to his feet. Snodburry, giving Peter a vindictive look, muttering something uncomplimentary about boys in general and Scouts in particular, hobbled away.
"Dashed if I would have helped the old blighter up," exclaimed one of the shopkeepers. "He thinks he's the only fellow in Ravensholm who owns a dog. Your animal was passing along as quietly as a lamb when——"
"I thought, perhaps, that Rex tripped him up accidently," interrupted Peter.
"Not a bit of it," was the rejoinder. "He treats every dog the same either lashes out with his stick or hacks at it. Only this time he must have tried to kick with both feet at once and he 'bumped, bumped, bumped just a little bit,' as the song goes. But there, I'd best not say too much; Old Snodburry's a good customer of mine, but you'll find out quite enough what he's like if you stay here."
"I have already, thanks," replied Peter. "He's rather interesting."
The same afternoon Carline went out in the dinghy, pulling up-stream for nearly a mile above the bridge and drifting down with the strong ebb tide.
Just as he was abreast of Mr. Snodburry's grounds, his attention was attracted by a manrunning along the shore just below high water mark and waving his hands above his head.
In front of the man were five or six ducks, quacking with fright. Driving the birds into an unfenced meadow the man was joined by another, and the pair herded the ducks into Mr. Snodburry's garden.
Carline ran the dinghy alongside theThetis, made fast and went below, thinking no more about the apparently trivial incident of the ducks.
Two days passed uneventfully, except that Mr. Snodburry paid periodical visits to the river front to gaze banefully at theThetisand to regret that the prevailing wind rendered "gas attack" impossible.
Then one afternoon Farmer Thorley passed along the bank.
"I'm a bit put out," he replied to the Sea Scouts' salutation. "Yesterday I missed five of my ducks, and this morning I gets a message from that Snodburry fellow saying that they've been trespassing and that he's locked them up. I went to see him and he says, 'Farmer, you'll have to pay me a sovereign for damage before you get those ducks back.' 'A sovereign,' says I. 'That's a bit thick, isn't it? What damage could they do to the extent of a pound?' But I offers him a shilling a head, which he wouldn't take, and tells me to think it over and let himknow. And geese and ducks from the farm have been free to run the river ever since I was a lad, an' in my father's time afore me."
"Supposing some of your sheep were grazing in that field, Mr. Thorley," said Carline, "and I drove one on to this gangway and then on board theThetis. Then, if I shut the hatch and sent to you to say that you could have your sheep if you paid me a pound, what would you do?"
The farmer looked curiously at the Sea Scout.
"Why," he replied, "I'd have the law on you for sheep-stealing."
"That's what has happened to your ducks, anyway," declared Carline, and proceeded to relate what he had seen.
"Dang me!" ejaculated Mr. Thorley, slapping his thigh. "That puts a different face to the matter. Thank you, lad, I'm off to the police station."
The farmer hurried off. He was back in about an hour, his face beaming.
"I saw the superintendent," he reported. "Super told me that if I could get hold of 'em ducks without doing any damage to Old Snodburry's property I'd best do so. Just to make sure I called on Lawyer Tebbutt, and he said much the same. And as luck would have it spied Old Snodburry driving to railwaystation, so he's out of the way for some time, thank goodness! Will you lads do me another Good Turn?"
"Rather," replied both Sea Scouts. "What do you want us to do?"
"I'll just run round to the market and borrow a poultry crate," continued Mr. Thorley. "Then if you young gents will put me across the river in your little boat I think I can get my five ducks back and save the shilling a head I offered him. I'd get my man Andrew to bear a hand only he's away over Nine Acre field, and Tom 'e's gone to Fleyton with the milk."
"We'll be glad to go with you," volunteered Peter.
"Good lads!" ejaculated the farmer. "I'll go up along and fetch the crate."
A few minutes later the dinghy, deeply laden with a big farmer, two hefty Sea Scouts and a spacious poultry coop, gained the opposite bank.
Boldly the trio crossed the meadow. The gate of the enclosed garden was ajar, a massive padlock with the key in it, dangling from a stout chain.
Mr. Horatio Snodburry's two minions came out, but, evidently under the impression that the farmer had "squared up" with their employer, made no objection. In fact they assisted in putting the debatable ducks into the crate.
In triumph, Farmer Thorley bore off his own property, Craddock and Carline rowing him down to the farm.
When the Sea Scouts returned to theThetis, there was a small crowd on the bank.
"Fat's in the fire," exclaimed one of the onlookers. "Old Snodburry's gone to the police station."