{Illustration: cover art}

THE BOYS OF THE "PUFFIN"

{illustration: "'DON'T LET IT BUMP ALONGSIDE, WHATEVER YOU DO!'"
[P. 36}

THE

BOYS OF THE "PUFFIN"

A SEA SCOUT YARN

By

PERCY F. WESTERMAN

Author of "The Mystery of Stockmere School,"
"Sinclair's Luck," etc.

Illustrated by
G. W. GOSS

{Illustration: logo}

MADE IN GREAT BRITAIN

The Boys of the "Puffin"

CHAPTER I

THE DEPUTY SCOUTMASTER

"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:—

The Croft,
Sablesham,
17th December.

DEAR LADS,

I am sorry, but all efforts on my part to get back on Friday have been futile. The business upon which I am engaged cannot be settled before Tuesday at the earliest.

However, as I know you want to get afloat, a friend of mine, Mr. George Gregory, has kindly promised to take my place. He is Scoutmaster of the 2nd Sablesham Troop. I hope you'll be able to show him that the Aberstour Sea Scouts are at least as smart as his.

Mr. Gregory is arriving by the 1.15 train. He tells me that he will be quite content with the accomodation on board the Puffin, and will sleep on board while he is at Aberstour.

Cheerio,

Yours Sea Scoutingly,

THEO. GRANT.

"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.

CHAPTER II

A LONG PASSAGE

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."

CHAPTER III

"LET ME OUT, OR——"

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."

CHAPTER IV

THE MIS-SPELT WORD

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.

CHAPTER V

THE PERIL IN THE FAIRWAY

"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!"

CHAPTER VI

TO SCUTTLE HIS SHIP

"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."