BOYS OF THE "PUFFIN"

"Any luck?"

Sea Scout Peter Craddock had heard that question many times before. It seemed to be a stock phrase with the numerous trippers at Aberstour whenever they attempted to open a conversation with any of the amateur fishermen on the pier-head.

Peter finished the task on which he was engaged—placing a plump and slippery ragworm upon a sharp, brand-new hook—before replying.

Turning his head, he saw that his questioner was a young, rather prepossessing man, somewhere in the vicinity of twenty-five years of age.

In one hand he held a folding kodak, in the other a towel and bathing costume.

"Not yet," replied the Sea Scout. "I'm a bit too early. Tide's still ebbing, though it's close on low water."

"Rummy little beasts," commented the stranger, as he looked at the wriggling worms "I shouldn't care to handle them."

"You'd soon get used to that," declared Peter, "'specially if they were put in sand—takes the slimy sensation off, you know."

"How do you get them?—buy them from the boatmen?"

"Some people do," observed the Sea Scout. "We don't. We dig for them when the tide's out."

"Really?" rejoined the stranger; then, dropping the subject, he pointed to a topsail schooner brought up outside the bar.

"What's she flying that flag for?" he asked.

"That's her ensign."

"I thought an ensign was always flown from the back end of a ship."

"The stern," corrected Peter. "Oh, no, not always. She's flying her ensign at the foremast head. Shows she's come foreign."

"Come foreign," repeated the other. "What does that mean?"

"She's just arrived from a foreign part," explained the Sea Scout with that touch of superiority in his tone which a seaman frequently adopts when enlightening mere landlubbers. "She's bound to keep that ensign flying until the Customs people give her clearance. They're putting off to her now."

A dinghy, manned by a couple of bronzed individuals in pilot jackets and peaked caps swept past the pierhead. The one in the stern sheets gave a friendly salutation to the Sea Scout. Peter waved back a reply.

"Friends of yours, eh?" continued the persistent questioner.

"Sort of," admitted Craddock. "Hello! My bait's gone again. The crabs are busy. I don't fish off the pierhead as a rule, but some of our fellows have gone away in the dinghy. That's our yacht over there."

He pointed to a cutter of about eight tons sitting with only a slight list on the mud.

"How jolly!" exclaimed the stranger. "Do you Scouts sail her yourselves?"

Peter shook his head.

"No, that's the worst of it," he replied. "We aren't allowed to without our Scoutmaster on board. We can use the dinghy, though."

"Do the Customs people ever search your yacht?" was the next question.

"No, why should they?" replied Peter. "We aren't smugglers, and we've never taken her across Channel. We may some day. 'Sides, the Customs officers know all about us."

"'Fraid I'm not a good sailor," admitted the stranger. "I'd be seasick. Well, I must be moving. Hope you'll have good luck when the tide makes. Good morning."

"Good morning," replied Craddock.

The young man took half a dozen steps. Then he turned abruptly and came back.

"By the bye," he said, "as you are a native of this place perhaps you can give me the address of a Mr. Grant—Theodore Grant."

"I should just think I could!" exclaimed Peter. "He's our Scoutmaster. He lives at Seamore Villa, just beyond the Martello Tower. But it's no use your calling. He won't be in."

"Won't be in?—that's a pity."

"'Cause he's away for three or four days," explained the Sea Scout. "And if he weren't, you wouldn't find him at home, 'cause he'd be out sailing with us," he added.

"Grant's away for a few days, you say? Do you happen to know where he's staying?"

"At Sablesham."

"Why, that's only twenty miles away," rejoined the stranger, his face brightening. "I can easily slip over there on my motorbike. Whereabouts in Sablesham is he staying, do you know?"

Yes, Peter did know, and forthwith gave the required information.

Then, with another "Good morning!" the bright young man walked briskly off and disappeared from view round the corner of the High Street.

At eight o'clock on the following morning the Scouts assembled at the Sea Scouts Hall, as their clubroom was called.

The daily routine consisted of hoisting the ensign, cleaning out the hall, scrubbing and smartening up the dinghy and her gear, and finally airing sails and "turning over" the motor of the Puffin, the Aberstour Sea Scouts' eight-ton auxiliary cutter.

Then, in ordinary circumstances, the patrol on duty went away on a short cruise, while the rest of the Sea Scouts amused themselves as best they could, since it was out of the question to stow twenty-four growing lads on an eight-tonner except in relays.

But this was no ordinary circumstance. The Scoutmaster, Mr. Grant, had been called away on urgent business, and without him, or another responsible "grown-up," the Sea Scouts were not allowed to put to sea.

It was disappointing, but being Scouts they kept smiling.

"I had a letter from Mr. Grant this morning," announced Frank Brandon, Patrol-leader of the Otters, a hefty, sun-burned youth of eighteen, who in addition to being an excellent swimmer was a boxer of no mean prowess. "He says he cannot possibly get back before next Tuesday."

This time the Otters did not smile. Instead of being deprived of their trip in the Puffin until Friday, it meant that their turn would not come round again before half of the next week had passed.

"But," continued the Patrol-leader, "that's only half the news. Cheer up!"

"Well, what is it?" inquired Phillips.

Brandon tapped the pocket of his jersey.

"It'll keep," he replied tantalisingly. "Now then, boys, look alive and get the job done! We want the place to look extra smart to-day."

This was a hint that there was something in the wind. For the next half-hour the Sea Scouts—Patrol-leader included—worked like galley-slaves.

When they had done, Brandon pinned the Scoutmaster's letter to the notice-board. The Sea Scouts crowded round eagerly.

This is what they read:—

"Wonder what he'll be like?" asked Hopcroft.

"Not a patch on our Scoutmaster," declared Carline loyally. "But we'll do all we can to help him."

"I shouldn't be surprised——" began Peter Craddock.

"Surprised what?" inquired Patrol-leader Brandon.

"Nothing much, Frank," replied Peter. "A fellow spoke to me on the pier yesterday. He wanted to see Mr. Grant. Perhaps he was Mr. Gregory."

"If so, you'll soon be able to make sure," rejoined the Patrol-leader. "Now, let's get on board and get the Puffin ready."

This took some time. The yacht had to be provisioned for the day's cruise, or rather with enough water and food for three days, this being one of Mr. Grant's precautions in the event of the yacht encountering bad weather that prevented her from returning to her home port. The petrol tank had to be filled, running gear overhauled, and sails hoisted. By this time it was nearly twelve o'clock.

At the appointed time Scoutmaster Gregory arrived. He was a man of about thirty years of age, of medium height and of slim build. He had cheerful, open features and a jovial manner.

Craddock saw at a glance that he bore not the slightest resemblance to the individual who had spoken to him on the pier.

The Scoutmaster travelled light. His luggage consisted of a small handbag and a haversack.

"Quite a smart little craft," exclaimed Mr. Gregory as they embarked in the dinghy. "Eight tons! Why, you could go almost anywhere in her. Our yacht is only about half that tonnage, and we've been as far as Cornwall and the Norfolk coast. Had lunch yet? No? Neither have I. But we'll get under way and grub as soon as we are clear of the harbour."

This suggestion was met with unqualified approval. The Sea Scouts were not ones to let a meal stand in the way when there was chance to get an extra hour afloat.

Very quickly they decided that Mr. Gregory was a jolly decent sort—one of the highest qualifications that boys can bestow upon "grown-ups." He was quick to express approval and keen to notice any act of smartness on the part of the youthful crew.

He knew his job, too. The way he worked the Puffin out of the narrow harbour, as if he had been used to her for years, proved that. It was also evident to the crew that he knew the approach channel, which was none too well buoyed, for without once referring to the chart or asking for information, he edged the yacht well to wind'ard of the Medlar Shoal and gained the open sea.

"Here, take her!" he exclaimed, signing to Phillips to take over the tiller. "Course Test by South. We'll run as far as Otherport and beat back. How about grub, you fellows?"

The suggestion met with approval, and forthwith they "tucked in," at the same time keeping up a lively flow of chatter.

Presently the conversation turned to the subject of smuggling.

"There's not much of that done nowadays," remarked the deputy Scoutmaster. "The coastguards and custom-house people are far too smart. The game isn't worth the candle, apart from the dishonesty of the whole business. Yet only the other day there was an attempt to run a cargo at Sablesham, where I live. A. vessel from France came into harbour and unloaded part of her cargo. Amongst it were half a dozen cases of boots consigned to one of the leading tradesmen in the town—the mayor, in fact. He knew nothing about them—hadn't ordered them. But he paid freightage and duty and took delivery. When the cases were opened they were found to contain—what?"

"Tobacco," suggested Carline.

"Hardly," replied Mr. Gregory with a smile. "The cases contained boots and shoes, but they were all lefts."

"Not much good to anybody, then," remarked Phillips.

"So the mayor thought," continued Mr. Gregory. "There was nothing to show where the consignment came from, and as the vessel had left they couldn't be put on board again. So after a while they were sold by auction. Some fellow from London, a total stranger, bought them for less than the mayor had paid for freightage."

"Then where did the smuggling come in?" asked the Patrol-leader. "It was all done openly."

"It was," agreed Mr. Gregory. "But the Customs people 'smelt a rat.' Before the stranger from London could remove his purchases one of the Customs officers picked up a shoe and knocked the heel off. It was a hollow heel, and inside was a Swiss watch. The Londoner was one of a gang. He got away, but he must have lost a lot of money, for every one of the odd shoes had a watch hidden inside the heel."

During the whole of the afternoon the Puffin held on her course. It was one of those delightful, whole mainsail breezes, sufficient to keep the lee rail steadily awash.

At five o'clock Otherport was about two miles away on the starboard bow. The wind was falling light, but Mr. Gregory gave no sign that he had noticed the fact, yet the crew knew perfectly well that on the homeward beat they would have a two-knot tide to run against.

Half an hour later the yacht was abreast of the harbour piers. The Deputy Scoutmaster brought his glasses to bear upon the crowded port.

"H'm," he ejaculated. "I don't think we'll put in. It's later than I thought, lads. Ready about—lee-ho."

The head-sail sheets were let fly, mainsheet hauled in and the helm put down. The Puffin went about and settled down on her dead beat to wind'ard.

"She's not making much, sir," remarked Brandon. "We've hardly gained on those two leading marks."

"Foul tide," explained Mr. Gregory. "We'll keep her on this tack and stand out to sea. We won't feel the tide so much farther out."

He glanced at his watch and then looked aloft at the fluttering burgee.

"Wind dropping, too," he observed. "No matter. If there's a flat calm we've the motor to fall back upon. Now, you fellows, how about tea?"

The meal over and the things stowed away the Sea Scouts gathered in the cock-pit and listened to yarns from their entertaining Acting Scoutmaster.

Lower and lower sank the sun, like a ball of fire in a red sky. The sails flapped and finally hung idly in the still air. The sea, unruffled, seemed a blaze of crimson.

"Nine o'clock," announced Mr. Gregory. "We'll be a bit late in getting back to our moorings, I fancy. But the glass is high and steady, and the air's warm. We'd better start that engine, or with the tide against us we'll be losing instead of gaining ground."

By the aid of an electric torch—for the engine-room under the water-tight cockpit was in darkness—Craddock turned on the petrol, adjusted the ignition and flooded the carburettor.

"All ready!" he shouted.

The starting-handle was in the cockpit with a chain drive to the crank-shaft passing through a raised hatch. At the word that all was in order the Patrol-leader gave the handle a vigorous swing.

It was well for him that he had grasped the handle properly and with due regard to "Safety First." That is to say, he kept his thumb underneath the handle and applied the grip by means of his fingers only.

The motor gave a terrific backfire, the handle flying off and narrowly missing Brandon's face. Fortunately it fell inboard.

"Be careful," cautioned Mr. Gregory.

"Never known her to do that before," declared the Patrol-leader. "Retard her still more, Peter."

"Can't," was the reply from below. "Mag's as far back as it will go."

Undaunted, Brandon made another attempt, with precisely the same result.

"Someone's been——" began Craddock, then, reining in his thoughts, he exclaimed, "Timing's slipped, Frank. Hang on a minute, I'll see if I can adjust it."

"Better not," objected the Deputy Scoutmaster. "It's a tricky business in a bad light. There's a faint breeze springing up."

"I can do it, sir," persisted Craddock.

"All right. Carry on, but be careful not to lose any of the parts." Lying on his side with his feet curled up, for the engine-room was cramped and awkwardly shaped, Peter tackled his self-imposed job. Altogether it took him the best part of half an hour.

"We're gaining now," declared Mr. Gregory. "Tide's easing a lot. Keep your eyes skinned, you fellows, and see if you can pick up Oldbury Head Light."

"Engine ought to be all right now, sir," reported Peter. "Shall we start her up and stow canvas?"

"Start her up by all means, but we'll keep the sails set and beat to wind'ard with the motor to help us. One long tack to seaward ought to do the trick."

This time the motor fired easily.

Midnight found the Puffin, on the port tack at least ten miles from shore. A slight haze had completely dimmed the powerful light on Oldbury Head, while the lights of Aberstour were quite invisible.

"Green light on the port bow, sir!" reported Wilson. "She keeps clear of us, doesn't she, sir?"

"Think again," said Mr. Gregory.

Whilst Wilson did think Phillips exclaimed: "I know, sir. She's not a steamer, 'cause there's no masthead light. We are, although we're under sail."

"Quite right," replied Mr Gregory. "At sea a motor vessel rates as a steamer. Wind's dropping again. Get the canvas down, lads; we'll carry on under motor alone."

The work of lowering sails was quickly performed.

"Hello, sir!" exclaimed Brandon. "Signalling?"

"Yes," replied Mr. Gregory. "That vessel has been signalling to us while you were lowering sails. She wants something; we'll run alongside. Mind the dinghy, one of you, if we have to go astern. Fenders out on the starboard side."

The Sea Scouts obeyed with alacrity. A midnight meeting with another craft was something out of the ordinary.

"What does she want, sir?" inquired Wilson and Carline.

"That I can't say," replied Mr. Gregory. "She may be in distress—sprung a leak, short of water, or half a dozen other causes. We'll soon see. Stand by with the reverse gear, Phillips. Ease her down a bit."

The strange vessel was now looming in the starlight. She was a craft of about fifty tons, ketch-rigged with dark sails.

"Ahoy!" shouted a deep voice. "What craft is that?"

"Yacht Puffin, of Aberstour," replied the Patrol-leader.

"Can you take letters ashore for us?" continued the man. "We're three days out from Lowestoft and are bound for Falmouth. No wind and too far to send our boat ashore," he added in support of his request.

"Righto!" shouted Mr. Gregory. "We'll run alongside."

In a few minutes the Puffin was made fast to the stranger's lee quarter, and a small brown paper parcel and about half-a-dozen letters were handed to Mr. Gregory.

"That's all, sir, and thank you," said the skipper of the big yacht. "And if we owe you anything——"

"Not at all," replied Mr. Gregory. "We're Sea Scouts and only too glad to do Good Turns. Let go, please! Touch ahead, Phillips."

An hour later and the leading lights of Aberstour Harbour were sighted at a distance of about four miles.

Brandon was now at the helm. Craddock was on deck for'ard thinking deeply. The rest of the Sea Scouts were either in the cockpit or seated on the cabin-top. Mr. Gregory was below making up his bunk, for he alone of the crew was to sleep on board. The others, according to previous arrangements, were to turn in at the Scouts' Hall, since it was too late for them to disturb their respective parents.

The Puffin was no longer alone. Several of the Aberstour fishing fleet were making for home in order to land their catches in time for market. Most of the boats were fitted with motors, and those which did not possess such a useful means of propulsion were being towed in. Fishermen, like Scouts, are members of a brotherhood in which Good Turns are the order of the day—-and night.

Suddenly a jar shook the Puffin. Peter jumped up and ran aft.

"All right, you fellows!" he exclaimed and dived into the cabin.

"What was that?" inquired Mr. Gregory, still struggling with blankets that obstinately refused to come out of a stiff kit-bag.

"Hit something, sir," replied Craddock; "bit of wreckage. I'll look for'ard."

Lighting a hurricane lamp Peter crawled through the small sliding doorway between the cabin and the fo'c'sle.

"I think she must have strained a plank," he reported breathlessly. "Come and have a look, sir."

Mr. Gregory dropped the kit-bag. Peter stood aside to let him gain the fo'c'sle.

"Can't see or hear any water coming in," said Mr. Gregory, after a brief examination. "It must be the lap of the waves outside, or——"

The thud of the sliding door being hurriedly slammed interrupted his words. He turned to find himself alone. Simultaneously the click of the lock informed him the door was not only shut, but secured. He tried the fore-hatch. Not only was it in place, but it was held down by a strong metal bar padlocked to the deck.

"Brandon, come below a minute!" exclaimed Peter.

The Patrol-leader, alarmed by Craddock's earnest tones, handed the tiller to Carline and gained the cabin.

"I've locked him in," announced Peter.

"What for?" demanded the perplexed Brandon.

"'Cause he's a wrong 'un," was the astonishing reply. "He's not a Scoutmaster. He's a smuggler. That stuff we took off that boat is cocaine. He tried to fool us with a forged letter from Mr. Grant; he jiggered the motor so as to keep us out at sea till midnight, and——"

"Enough of that silly joking, Craddock!" came the voice of the prisoner through the bulkhead. "Open the door at once."

Peter made no reply.

"I couldn't warn you before, Frank," he continued, addressing the Patrol-leader. "If I'm wrong I'll take all responsibility, anyway. There's another thing. While we were stowing canvas he was signalling to the strange vessel. It wasn't Morse. I could have read it if it were, as you know, and their reply wasn't Morse either. It was a secret code."

"For the last time, Craddock," shouted the captive angrily, "open that door."

"Sorry, but you must stay there until we get into port," said the Patrol-leader, answering for Peter.

"I'll give you thirty seconds," continued the Scoutmaster. "If by that time I'm not released I'll blow the lock off. I'm armed, I might warn you."

"Don't add attempted murder to smuggling," responded Brandon. "You can't tackle eight of us even if you do get out."

A tremendous thudding announced that the prisoner was attempting to push the door down with his shoulder.

"'Spose he breaks out?" asked Peter dubiously.

"I'll tackle him," replied the Patrol-leader with easy confidence. "He daren't shoot, even if he has a revolver, and I guess I'll knock him out if it comes to fists. Cut on deck, Peter, and take charge. Warn the others and tell a couple of them to keep an eye on the fore-hatch. Signal the Customs Watch-house and tell them."

It was half-past two in the morning when the Puffin glided in between the pierheads. Craddock made no attempt to steer for the moorings. He ran the boat alongside the West Pier, the tide being almost full.

There on the jetty was Scoutmaster Grant, together with half-a-dozen Customs Officers and a couple of policemen.

"You got my telegram, sir?" said Peter.

"Rather," replied Mr. Grant. "It puzzled me. I know no one of the name of Gregory."

"You will soon, sir," was the rejoinder. "We've got him safely locked up in the fo'c'sle."

Soon the little Puffin was packed. Before attempting to open the fo'c'sle hatch the Customs Officers took possession of the letters and parcel received from the mysterious yacht. There, sure enough, was sufficient evidence—pure cocaine worth at least a couple of thousand pounds.

Then the fore-hatch was uncovered.

"Come on, Mr. Gregory," exclaimed one of the Customs officials coaxingly. "Let's have a look at you."

Gregory came out as tamely as a lamb. He was wise enough to recognise the futility of resistance.

In a trice he was handcuffed. A deft search revealed no signs of a firearm, nor did a subsequent examination of the fo'c'sle lead to the discovery of a pistol.

"I must ask you two lads to come with me to the station-as a mere matter of form," said the police-sergeant, addressing Brandon and Craddock.

"I'll come with you," added Mr. Grant. "You others turn in as soon as you can."

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 on the 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 the Puffin? 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.

"This has 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 the Puffin."

All the same the weekly cruise had been uneventful. The Puffin had 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 run aground 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 the Puffin's mainsheet 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 only to 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!"

The Puffin came 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 the Puffin had 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.

The Puffin was 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 the Puffin gathered 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."

The Puffin was 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't understand, 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. Getalong was 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 the Getalong must 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, the Getalong would 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 his arm, 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'll have that jack-yarder aloft, lads!" exclaimed Scoutmaster Grant as the yacht Puffin cleared 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 the Vang Lightship 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, had attempted 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 the Puffin within hailing distance of the Vang Lightship. 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 the Vang was 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. The Puffin, 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 the Puffin drew 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 the Puffin held on, her crew basking in the glorious sunshine. Then, with remarkable suddenness the sun disappeared in a watery haze, the temperature dropped 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 the Puffin was 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," announced Phillips 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 unseen vessel'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 the Puffin's stern. 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 seventeen fathoms, 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!"

The fog had lifted sufficiently to enable the crew of the Puffin to 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 the Puffin with 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 wisp of 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 the Puffin were 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 minutes the Puffin, under power but with the clutch in neutral, was almost motionless within fifty yards of the Getalong's starboard 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."

It cannot 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 could lie 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."

The Getalong was 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 the Getalong was a very old type of vessel was apparent by the fact that she was without water-tight bulkheads. 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 the Getalong had 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 the surface, 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 the Puffin. 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 the Puffin glided 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 the Puffin back 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 tug Stormcock, 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 the Getalong is 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 the Stormcock arrives."

The Puffin departed 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 of water over the side, while in a couple of hours the Getalong was again in her normal trim.

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 the Getalong back to the approximate position where the Puffin left 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 the Stormcock was approaching.

In reply, Craddock gaily tootled the Getalong's syren, 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 the Getalong crossed 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 first thing 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."

It was late in the afternoon when the boats of the s.s. Getalong reached 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:—

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 the Puffin and her crew of Sea Scouts that the s.s. Getalong was not lying fathoms deep on the bed of the English Channel.

"One of you fellows must remain on board as ship-keeper," decided Scoutmaster Grant. "The unlucky one must be elected amongst yourselves, so get busy, lads."

The Puffin lay 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, why he should not be 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 the corner 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 the Puffin, 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 in The 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 deck to 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 the Puffin?" 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 heard quite 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 Gull is 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 the Puffin had received the consignment of contraband drugs.

At that moment a red light gleamed through the port scuttle. The Puffin lifted 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 the Puffin's deck.

"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 between the 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. The Puffin was 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 must give 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 the Puffin back 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 the Puffin, 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 aware that 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. "The Puffin is 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 yacht begins 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 was reading. 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 the Puffin took 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 the Puffin had 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 the Puffin trembled 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, the Puffin lay 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 the Puffin was 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 the Puffin was heading straight for Sablesham Harbour,

At 10 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 over our heads. Craddock will be wondering why we are late. I wonder if——"

He broke off abruptly.

The mast and riding-light of the Puffin ought 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.

The Puffin's berth 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 the Puffin's alongside 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 the Puffin would 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 the Puffin, sir," he announced. "I know the bark of the motor."

No explanations were asked or given until the Puffin, 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 the Puffin's adventures.

"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.

"Where are we making for, Negus?" inquired Patrol-leader Frank Brandon, as the fishing smack Frolic with 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 old Frolic gybing 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.

The Frolic was 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.

The Frolic reeked 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, the unaccountable coming and going of the soles was a mystery.

Close hauled on the starboard it took the Frolic a 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 the Frolic's owner. "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 elder companion 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.

The Frolic apparently 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 the Frolic beat 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 faint sounds 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 the Frolic's green 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 the Frolic to 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 the Frolic at 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.

"The hound!" ejaculated Old Negus angrily, as he made a jump for the Frolic's tiller. "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 the Frolic pitched and plunged in the bow-wave of the steamer.

Putting the helm hard down Old Negus threw the Frolic into 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 the Frolic's anchor jammed against the trawl-beam well-nigh capsized Brandon.

Round swung the Frolic, 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. Fair exchange 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 the Frolic, 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 the Frolic, 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 the Frolic took a wide sheer to starboard.

Impeded by the drag of her gear and the additional resistance offered by the fishing smack, the Marie-Celeste simply 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 the Marie-Celeste's engine-room telegraph bell clanged. After a brief interval her propeller ceased to revolve. Quickly she lost way.

The Frolic, 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 Brandon was 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 the Frolic's crew 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 the Frolic heard the thud of the disengaged lower blocks against the vessel's iron sides. A gutteral order and the oars dropped.

Brandon grasped the boathook.

"Anglais!" shouted a voice from the Marie-Celeste's boat. "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 the Frolic's crew 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 the Marie-Celeste had 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 the Frolic.

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.

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 the Frolic's fore-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 the Frolic, 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 the Frolic's crew, 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 he hurled 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 the Frolic's stern, 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 the Marie-Celeste.

Ten minutes passed without any further communication between the Frolic and the Marie-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 the Frolic began to feel a bit anxious, for during the encounter the Marie-Celeste's head 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 helpless Frolic could 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 the Frolic were bathed in a dazzling white light.

Brandon gave a cheer. At the opportune moment, help was at hand.

The Patrol-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 the Marie-Celeste swung 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 the Frolic's anchor 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 the Frolic beat homeward. Before long the destroyer overtook her with the Marie-Celeste in 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 the Marie-Celeste. Then it came out that the coastguards 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 destroyer Seagull, 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 the Seagull had captured the Marie-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.

"Would you 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. The Puffin was 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?"

"The Thetis, 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-smack Frolic, because Jim Negus has broken his arm. So I fixed on Carline and you. Carline's on his way down. Report on board the Thetis before 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 the Thetis, 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 the Thetis shook 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 the Thetis looked very little larger than the Puffin. 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 to her 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 the Puffin. 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 ordinary visitors, 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, the Thetis lay 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 the Thetis turned past the pier-heads and was soon curtseying to the wavelets of the open sea.

Both Sea 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 the Thetis rounded 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 small town—Ravensholm—at the end. Edge her off a bit, Peter. There's a mud-spit extending a good ten yards outside 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 the Thetis had 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 the Thetis travelled 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 the Thetis waved 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 the Thetis in 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 the Thetis moored 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 seemed aggressively 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 the Thetis were 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 the Thetis, 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 one jerking 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 the Thetis returned 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 nothing further 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.

Left to 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 man running 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 the Thetis, 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 the Thetis and 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 him know. 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 the Thetis. 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 railway station, 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 the Thetis, 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."

That night it blew half a gale. Secure in a sheltered berth the Sea Scouts could make light of the elements, thankful that they were not "caught out" in the open sea.

At about one o'clock in the morning, Peter was roused by the Thetis grinding against the piles of the stage close to which she was moored. Evidently her quarter-warp had dragged the kedge.

"I'll put a fender out," decided Craddock, doubly careful since he was in charge of a strange yacht.

He turned out just as he was, barefooted and in pyjamas. But when he gained the cockpit all thoughts about putting out a fender vanished. The air was thick with driving smoke that failed to conceal a mass of deep red flame. The Snodburry mansion was on fire!

"Wake up, old man," exclaimed Peter to his slumbering chum. "Wake up! Snodburry's house is all on fire."

In the shortest possible time the Sea Scouts threw on some clothes, thrust their feet into their sea-boots and jumped into the dinghy.

A few strokes of the oars brought them to the opposite bank. Through the smoke they dashed across the lawn and up to the house, where they stumbled over the senseless form of one of the men-servants. It was a moment's work to drag him clear of the falling embers. There appeared to be no one else about on their side of the buildings. The late inmates were on the opposite end, vainly striving to quench the flames with buckets of water.

Already the whole of the ground floor was ablaze, while in one corner the flames were bursting through the roof.

"Everyone's out, I think," spluttered Peter, half choked with the fumes. "Let's release the horses and poultry. There's nothing more that we can do."

It was as well, he thought, that Carline and he had already paid a visit to the outbuildings. Up to the present the livestock were in no great danger, although the neighing horses and loudly cackling fowls were terrified by the roaring of the flames and the billowing clouds of smoke.

"There is someone, though!" exclaimed Peter, pointing to an upper window.

"Your imagination," declared Carline.

"No—look!"

A hand was fumbling with the casement. Then a face appeared, horror-stricken, gasping.

"It's old Snodburry!" exclaimed Carline. "They've forgotten all about him."

"Quick—bring a ladder!" shouted Peter. "There's one in the stable-yard."

"Stand by to steady it," said Peter resolutely, as the ladder was reared against the wall. "I'm going up—not you."

Waiting only to tie his scarf over his mouth and nose Craddock ascended the ladder. One smart blow demolished the pane of glass that enabled him to get to the casement fastening. The next instant the window was wide open, a rush of smoke well nigh forcing the Sea Scout from his precarious perch.

The room was full of smoke and in darkness. Leaning over the sill Peter groped but found nothing. Then a spurt of reddish flame darting through a charred portion of the floor revealed a huddled figure lying half way between the window and the door.

Craddock hesitated no longer. With a diving-like movement he leapt through the window on to the floor, that gave ominously as it felt his weight. With smarting eyes and painfully drawn breath he crawled over the hot floor-boards until he was able to seize the unconscious form of Mr. Snodburry, and dragged him to the window.

Then came the critical time. The senseless man was too heavy. Peter, in spite of his strength, was handicapped by the fumes, while the window sill was waist-high from the floor.

Without knowing how he managed it, Peter heaved the helpless man until his head and shoulders were without the window. Then he got astride the sill and groped for the top rung of the ladder, by this time unable to decide what to do. He was suffocating, but even in his half stifled state he realised that if he let go of his burden, Mr. Snodburry would probably break his neck by the fall.

A burst of flame from the lower window enveloped the ladder. Something had to be done, and that quickly.

"Coming, Peter!" shouted Carline.

This time Craddock did not forbid him. He was only half conscious that his chum was shouting, until Carline's head and shoulders appeared above the flame-tinged smoke.

"Let go!" bawled Carline. "I've got him."

Peter let go. Like a sack of flour the bulky figure of Mr. Snodburry vanished. There was a crash and the ladder disappeared.

Summoning up his last remaining strength Peter jumped and landed on his hands and feet upon the soft turf.

Carline, with his left arm dangling helplessly, was dragging the rescued man clear ... Brass helmets glinted in the firelight ... That was the last Peter remembered until he found himself in bed.

The two Sea Scouts admitted next afternoon that they hadn't done so badly and had got off lightly. Peter was slightly burnt about the legs and had had the greater part of his hair and eyebrows singed off; Carline had his left arm in splints with a fracture of the wrist. They were in the Cottage Hospital, and in an adjoining bed was Mr. Horatio Snodburry, whose neck had been saved at the expense of Carline's wrist.

True to his trust, Peter, declaring that he felt quite all right, went on board the Thetis that evening, where he was warmly greeted by Rex. Next day Mr. Clifton returned and Carline was sent home to Aberstour by train.

According to the usual run of things, Mr. Horatio Snodburry ought to have gratefully thanked the Sea Scouts for saving his life, and by virtue of his escape ought to have lived for ever afterwards in love and charity with his neighbours. But he did neither. Perhaps his mind was still rankling over the pound that he might have got had the Sea Scouts not assisted in recovering Farmer Thorley's ducks.

"I can trust young Craddock to do anything or go anywhere within the bounds of possibility," declared Scoutmaster Grant. "He's a bit imaginative, I admit, and apt to jump to conclusions, but he's got the makings of a fine, trustworthy man."

"He is certainly plucky," agreed Mr. Clifton. "And he has proved himself very useful on board the Thetis. He seems to have distinguished himself in several ways while I was off the yacht, visiting my brother, who was taken suddenly ill. Yes, young Craddock's a smart youngster, who would make a rattling good officer of the Mercantile Marine, although I shouldn't be at all surprised if his parents didn't shove him into a bank or make him cram up for the Civil Service. I've known heaps of cases like that—strong, healthy fellows condemned to a sedentary life when their one desire is to go to sea. Hullo! here he comes."

Hurrying along the tow-path came Peter Craddock. The Thetis was lying at Ravensholm. For one thing, a spell of very bad weather had detained her, and for another, Mr. Clifton had been compelled to make several hurried journeys to his home and could not spare time to take the yacht round to her laying-up port.

Craddock had remained on board almost continuously, but his holiday was drawing to a close, and very soon he would have to bid farewell to the sea until Easter.

Then, by what Peter considered to be a rare slice of luck, Scoutmaster Grant found an opportunity of coming round to Ravensholm to help Mr. Clifton take the Thetis home. That meant that Craddock would have what he had long been hoping for—a long sea passage in the capable little yacht.

It was Tuesday morning. Craddock had been sent into the town to purchase provisions for the voyage. The water tanks had already been filled. All that remained on Peter's return was to unmoor and set sail, then good-bye to Ravensholm and its fresh-water river, and "yo ho!" for the rolling billows of the English Channel. Even Rex, the sheep dog, seemed to have an inkling of what was in his master's mind, for he had shaken off his usual lethargy and was frisking about on deck as if to hurry on the process of getting under way.

The wind was well aft going down the river, and the Thetis made short work of the run. Instead of a series of short tacks, requiring constant work with the sheets, as was the case when the Thetis ascended the river, there was little to be done beyond an occasional gybe when a bend in the course made such a manoeuvre imperative.

In a little over an hour the Thetis had crossed the bar and was responding to the gentle lift of the English Channel.

"Jolly fine, sir, to taste the spray," commented Peter as a feather of foam flew in over the yacht's weather bow. "How long will the passage take?"

Mr. Grant shook his head.

"Can't say," he replied. "It depends entirely upon whether the breeze holds, since Mr. Clifton doesn't care to use the motor. At this rate, we ought to make Mapplewick before dark."

Alas, for that surmise! Just about noon the wind failed entirely, and the Thetis, with jack topsail set above her mainsail and a jib-headed topsail over her mizzen, was helplessly becalmed. She had set every possible stitch of canvas, but to no purpose. There she lay, rolling sluggishly, with the main-boom swinging from side to side with a succession of jerks that every sailing man knows and has good cause to hate.

The rays of the sun beat pitilessly down upon the deck, while the oily surface of the water reflected the glare and seemed to throw off as much heat as that from the orb of day.

Mr. Grant gave an inquiring glance at his chum, but Mr. Clifton shook his head.

"No," he replied, "we won't use the engine. Bad seamanship—very. Motors weren't known in my young days, and we yachtsmen got on very well without them. Always managed to fetch somewhere after a calm."

So they stuck it.

It was a tedious experience. Nothing could be done. The Thetis wallowed and rolled, swept slowly and imperceptibly along by a steady two-knot tide. The low-lying shore was invisible, there were no buoys or beacons in sight, not even another sail—nothing to be seen but an expanse of cloudless sky and mirror-like sea.

"How about grub?" inquired the owner of the Thetis, shaking off his drowsiness and stretching his cramped limbs.

The suggestion met with unqualified approval.

"All right," added Scoutmaster Grant. "Craddock and I will get the food ready, if you'll stand by the tiller."

Accordingly Peter made for the fo'c'sle and started up the Primus stove, while Mr. Grant prepared the saloon table and foraged in the tiny pantry.

The kettle was almost on the point of boiling when Mr. Clifton shouted down the companion.

"On deck, you two! There's a brute of a squall coming!"

The warning was instantly acted upon. On gaining the deck Craddock saw that it was not an exaggerated one. Less than a quarter of a mile away the hitherto tranquil sea was being lashed into a triangular sheet of white foam—one of those sudden squalls that, although rare, are to be met with in British waters, and of which the barometer gives little or no warning.

"Down with the jack-yarder!" ordered the skipper. "Take the helm, Peter, and luff her up when the squall strikes her."

The two men sprang to the topsail halliard, sheet and downhaul. The two latter "rendered" without a hitch, but the halliard obstinately refused to run through the block.

"Jammed!" exclaimed Mr. Clifton, bringing all his weight to bear upon the downhaul in a vain effort to lower the canvas. "Lower away the peak! That'll ease her."

Before the peak halliard of the mainsail could be cast off from the fife-rail belaying-pin, the squall struck the yacht. With a shrill, eerie shriek the first puff hit the hitherto becalmed vessel, and in spite of her stiffness threw her over almost on to her beam ends, so much so that water poured in torrents over the lee coamings into the water-tight cockpit.

The canvas groaned and shuddered at the furious blast, while the jack-yard topsail blew out like a banner.

Vainly Craddock, hanging on like grim death, thrust the tiller hard down. The Thetis refused to answer to her helm. Sheets of white-crested water flew completely over the cabin-top, wetting the mainsail half-way up to the hounds. As for Mr. Grant and Mr. Clifton, all they could do was to grip the nearest object of a substantial nature and await developments. It was impossible to release the head sheets, since the lee waterways were more than knee-deep.

Above the noise of the elements came a report like the bark of a quick-firer. A cloth of the mainsail had been slit from top to bottom. Simultaneously the clew of the jib carried away, and the sail flapping violently in the wind, added to the deafening din.

That proved a blessing in disguise. The carrying away of the jib assisted the Thetis to come up into the wind. More like a submarine than a yacht, she sluggishly shook herself clear of the water and began to gather way.

The worst was now over. The squall was of short duration, and although the Thetis was travelling fast, she was no longer in danger of being capsized or dismasted. Yet in all conscience the damage was serious.

"Where's Rex?" shouted Mr. Grant, knowing that the sheep dog had been lying under the lee of the cabin skylight.

"Rex is all right," replied the dog's owner reassuringly. "He's a knowing customer. Bolted down below a good twenty seconds before the squall came. Righto, Peter, I'll take the helm."

A couple of short barks came from below. Mr. Clifton turned to the Sea Scout.

"Nip below, Peter," he said, "and see what's wrong. I know the meaning of that bark."

Craddock hurried down the companion-ladder. The saloon was in a state of confusion. The heel of the yacht during the squall was too great for the maximum inclination of the swing-table, consequently the tea-things had slid off and were lying in a disordered heap on the floor, together with the best part of the ship's library and the cushion of the wind'ard bunk.

But it was not for that that Rex had given alarm.

The violent motion had unshipped the Primus stove from its gimbals and the fierce blue flame had burnt a considerable part of the fo'c'sle floor, notwithstanding the wet state of the boards. It was owing to the latter circumstance that the fire was not more serious. As it was, Peter replaced the stove, taking care to release the air and quickly beat out the flames with a damp towel.

The Thetis, although out of immediate danger, was in a pitiable plight. The wind was still fresh and the sea had worked up into quite a nasty turmoil. The damaged jib had already been lowered and unshackled from the traveller, but the jackyard topsail still fluttered bannerwise from the mainmast head. The torn mainsail, too, was shaking violently as the wind whistled through the long rent in the centre cloth.

"We'll have to get that topsail down," declared Mr. Clifton. "I'll go aloft. Stand from under, Peter."

If the truth be told, Mr. Clifton did not feel any too confident over the job. Active enough in most respects, he did not relish work aloft. On previous occasions his paid hand undertook tasks of that description. Yet he was quite ready to essay the work of sending the obstinate topsail down on deck.

"I'll go, sir," volunteered Peter.

Mr. Clifton looked very pleased, but the next moment he realised that the job was a dangerous one.

"I'm used to going aloft," continued Craddock. "Am I not, Mr. Grant?"

Scoutmaster Grant, who had relieved the owner at the helm, nodded assent.

"He's as active as a monkey, Clifton. Up you go, Peter!"

The Sea Scout needed no second bidding. Grasping the main halliards and using the mast-hoops as footholds he nimbly ascended to the cross-trees. There he paused to decide upon a further course of action.

It was far from comfortable. Although, as Peter had declared, he was used to going aloft, the conditions were very different from those he had previously encountered. The violent motion of the yacht was considerably exaggerated at a height of thirty feet above the deck, whilst the fiercely flogging mainsail threatened to sweep the Sea Scout from his precarious position.

Shinning up the bare pole above the cross-trees Peter made the discovery that the topsail halliard had "jumped" the block and was wedged tightly between it and the sheave.

At present there was only one thing to be done. Drawing his sheath knife he cut the rope. The topsail yard dropped, and before Craddock could regain the deck the sail was lowered and secured by Mr. Grant.

"Well done, Peter!" exclaimed both men as Craddock, breathless with his exertions, rejoined them.

"Had to cut it, sir," declared the Sea Scout apologetically.

"Only what I expected," rejoined Mr. Clifton. "Take the helm while we lower the mizzen topsail and mainsail. Keep her jogging along, Peter."

Still further reducing canvas occupied the next ten minutes. The Thetis, under staysail and mizzen, was now doing a bare three knots, while to make matters worse the wind had veered and was now dead against her.

"Not much chance of making Mapplewick before dark," commented Mr. Grant.

"No, but we must carry on," added his companion. "There's no harbour we can make for nearer than Winkhaven, and I don't want to retrace our course all that way."

"She'll make a bad performance to wind'ard without the mainsail," remarked the Scoutmaster. "The best thing we can do is to patch the canvas and trust to luck that it will hold."

"Our belated meal first," decided the owner. "We'll heave-to for half an hour."

Once more the stove was lighted, and presently the famished crew was enjoying a hearty meal, in spite of the disordered state of the yacht below and aloft.

The plain but satisfying repast over, the Thetis was put on her course again, and Mr. Grant and Peter tackled the torn mainsail. This they temporarily repaired by joining the rent edges by herring-bone stitching, putting on in addition a patch of canvas cut from the damaged jib.

This done, the mainsail was reefed and then rehoisted. The spitfire jib was then set and the Thetis increased her speed to a good five knots, lying a point closer to the wind than before.

By this time it was within an hour of sunset. The wind was still moderating and had veered another couple of points, so that it was possible to set a course to pass within five miles of Mapplewick before going about.

Nevertheless, it seemed very unlikely that the Thetis would make her port before dawn, since the harbour was a tidal one and could only be entered between half flood and half ebb.

At length darkness set in. The port and starboard lamps were lit and the electric lamp of the binnacle switched on. The breeze still held, but there seemed every prospect of another calm before very long.

At eleven o'clock the occulting light on Probert Head became visible, bearing a point on the starboard bow. Mapplewick Harbour lay in a bay three miles beyond the head.

"More grub," decided the skipper. "Peter, if you will take the helm for a spell we'll get our supper. Then you can have yours and turn in."

"I'm not sleepy, sir," protested Craddock.

"You will be," said Mr. Clifton. "A few hours' rest will do you good. Keep her as she is, she'll almost sail herself. Shout if you sight anything."

The two men went below, leaving Craddock in charge of the deck.

"That youngster's proved himself a brick!" declared Mr. Clifton warmly. "You ought to be proud of him, Grant."

"I am," agreed the Scoutmaster, as he started up the stove. "Curiously enough, he'd hardly been afloat before he joined the troop, but he seemed to tumble to things naturally. His father is a farmer in a fairly big way. His grandfather was also a farmer, so it seems strange that the boy should suddenly develop a real sailorman's instincts."

"Possibly if you traced further back you'd find that he had an ancestor who was a pirate, smuggler or merchant adventurer," suggested Mr. Clifton. "The seafaring strain must have skipped several generations and suddenly developed in young Craddock. Sailors are born, not made, you know."

They conversed in loud tones, for the buzzing of the Primus stove and the thud of the waves against the yacht's weather bow rendered conversation in an ordinary tone inaudible.

Once Rex stirred himself and gazed intently through the companion into the dark night, but the action was unnoticed by either of the two men. Apparently satisfied the sheep-dog stretched himself at full length on one of the bunks.

"Kettle's boiling," announced Mr. Clifton, opening the valve of the stove. "Pass along the teapot, please."

The roar of the stove died away.

The two men sat down to the hurried meal.

Happening to glance upwards at the tell-tale compass in the roof of the deckhouse, Mr. Grant gave an exclamation of surprise.

"Hello!" he remarked. "What's Peter doing—dozing? We're four points off our course."

"All right, Peter?" shouted Mr. Clifton.

There was no response.

"Asleep on duty," continued the skipper of the Thetis jokingly. Then louder: "Peter! Wake up! You're letting her shake!"

Still there was no reply.

The two men exchanged glances. Each read on the other's face an unspoken fear. Simultaneously they made for the companion-ladder, colliding in their frantic rush on deck. Coming directly from the brilliantly-lighted saloon, they could see nothing at first, save the faint gleam of the binnacle lamp. That, they knew, ought to be playing upon the figure of the helmsman. It did not, merely flickering upon the gently flapping mizzen.

"Peter!" shouted the Scoutmaster, vainly hoping that Craddock might have gone for'ard.

"'Fraid he's fallen overboard!" exclaimed Mr. Clifton. "Haul on the mizzen-sheet, Grant. We'll put about. He can't have gone very long."

The owner of the Thetis put the helm hard over. The Scoutmaster fumbled for the mizzen-sheet. Only a few feet remained, one end frayed like a small mop-head.

As the yacht swung head to wind before falling off on the other tack, Mr. Grant secured the swaying mizzen-boom, then going for'ard and steadying himself by the fore-stay he peered through the darkness, shouting at intervals in the hope of hearing a response from the lost Sea Scout.

It was a hopeless task. Both men realised the extreme unlikeliness of the yacht retracing her course. All they could do was to make short tacks, in the hope that by so doing they might pass within hailing distance.

"He's a good swimmer," declared Mr. Grant.

"Ten miles from the nearest land," rejoined his companion gloomily. "Might have got a crack on the head as he went overboard. I was a fool to let him remain on deck alone."

"I'm more to blame," declared Mr. Grant. "But settling the responsibility will not find him. Ahoy!" he hailed for the twentieth time.

There was not even a mocking echo in reply. The waste of darkened water, where no doubt Peter was still swimming for dear life, was an impenetrable veil. For a distance of twenty yards or so the red and green navigation lamps threw their coloured rays upon the water. Beyond that sea and sky were merged into a wall of utter darkness.

All the rest of that long night the Thetis cruised round the spot where it was supposed the yacht had been when the catastrophe occurred; then with the first streaks of red dawn in the eastern sky the Thetis bore up for Mapplewick.

At six o'clock the Thetis, with her ensign flying at half-mast, staggered into Mapplewick Harbour. Willing hands assisted to berth her alongside the jetty—a willingness prompted by the sight of the half-masted colours, while a crowd of curious onlookers could hardly be restrained from questioning the two grey-faced men who formed the crew of the storm-beaten yacht.

Half-dazed by the magnitude of the calamity, Grant and Clifton went ashore to perform their sad duty—to report the loss of one of the crew and to telegraph the grim tidings to Craddock's parents.

At noon Mr. and Mrs. Craddock arrived by train.

They were met by the Scoutmaster, who fully expected to be reproached by the missing lad's parents; but not a word of that sort escaped them. They were yet to realise their loss, and were still buoyed up in the hope that Peter would yet be restored to them.

For a fortnight they remained at Mapplewick. Mr. Grant remained, too. Nothing would induce him to return to Aberstour while there was a chance that the sea might give up the body of the drowned Sea Scout.

But in spite of the assurances of the fisherfolk that the corpse would be washed ashore in Mapplewick Bay at any time after the ninth day, the fortnight passed without that grim event taking place. The sea, lashed into fury by a prolonged Equinoctial gale, refused to give up its secret.

At length, with hope all but extinguished, Peter's parents returned to Aberstour. Mr. Grant went with them. He was utterly overwhelmed by the disaster—a prey to self reproaches that he had not taken better care of the boy. He remembered with a pang of remorse his confident assurances to Mr. Clifton that Craddock could be trusted to do almost anything. Peter had proved his resourcefulness in time of danger, yet in a comparatively light wind he had vanished.

"I can never bring myself to go afloat with the troop again," he thought to himself, dreading the time when the Puffin was due to be put into commission with her youthful crew.

One morning the Scoutmaster was interrupted in the midst of shaving by a violent knocking on the front door.

"There's Mr. Craddock to see you, sir," announced his landlady through the closed door of the bathroom, followed by a loud hammering of the caller's fists.

"News—good news!" exclaimed Mr. Craddock excitedly when the two men were face to face. "Read this, Mr. Grant. Peter's safe!"

He thrust a bulky envelope into the Scoutmaster's hands.

"Read it!" he repeated. "Everything's all right now, but it fair puzzles me how Peter got there."

With this rather vague remark Mr. Craddock sat down, breathing heavily, for he had been running.

Mr. Grant read the letter. It was from Peter, and was headed, "s.s. Boanerges, Bahia, Brazil."

It was a breezy letter, relating at some length Peter's adventures on the High Seas between Las Palmas and South America.

"I'm quite happy," it went on, "only I'd like to see you all again very soon. We're off round the Horn and then to Sydney and Singapore. I'm now rated as Able Seaman, and it's a topping life. Hope you got my letter and cablegram from Las Palmas. "Your ever loving son, "PETER CRADDOCK."

"We never got either, but I suppose they'll come along soon," said Mr. Craddock, referring to the last passage of his son's letter. "I'm real curious to know how he got picked up."

"And so am I," added the Scoutmaster, who looked as if he were ten years younger than he did ten minutes before. "And won't he be able to tell some stories of his adventures when he does return! Able seaman already, too."

"Ay," said Mr. Craddock. "Sounds grand—not that I know what an able seaman is exactly. 'Tany rate, he says he's doing well, thanks to his training as a Sea Scout."