THE SEA SCOUTS

OF

THE KESTREL

The Story of a Cruise of Adventure & Pluck in

a Small Yacht on the English

Channel

By

PERCY F. WESTERMAN

Author of

“Clipped Wings,” “Sea Scouts Abroad,” “The

Sea Monarch,” “Under the White

Ensign,” &c. &c.

With Coloured Illustrations

London

Seeley, Service & Co. Limited

196 Shaftesbury Avenue

Printed in Great Britain at

The Mayflower Press, Plymouth. William Brendon & Son, Ltd.

THE

SEA SCOUTS OF THE “KESTREL”

The Sea Scouts of the

“Kestrel”

CHAPTER I
Knocked Out

“What’s happened to Mr. Grant, I wonder?” remarked Sea Scout Peter Craddock, as he gazed anxiously through the gathering twilight. “He’s late.”

“So will we be, if we keep hanging-on to the slack,” rejoined Patrol Leader Frank Brandon. “There are only eighteen more days to the Sea Scouts’ Jamboree, and if we’re to be in it, there’s not a minute to waste. Mr. Grant’s all right, never you fear.”

Craddock straightened his aching back, wiped the perspiration from his eyes, and resumed his voluntary though tedious task. He, too, realised that time was precious if the “Otters” were to be represented at the forthcoming and eagerly anticipated nautical festivities of the Sea Scouts’ Jamboree.

The “Otters” were a long way from their native Aberstour. Force of circumstances had hit them pretty hard of late, but, like corks, they bobbed up again under adversity as all scouts should do.

For one thing, their staunch little yacht Puffin was no more. She had foundered at her moorings in a terrific autumn gale that had sprung up with such suddenness that the official weather forecast had failed to give any warning whatsoever. Then, Mr. Grant, their Scoutmaster, had a serious illness that put him out of the running for three months. Patrol Leader Frank Brandon was away on a five months’ involuntary voyage on a tramp steamer, and had only just returned.

In the absence of Scoutmaster and Patrol Leader, Peter Craddock did his level best to keep the troop running, and by dint of sheer enthusiasm he had succeeded.

Mr. Grant had recovered his health when the Sea Scouts’ Jamboree was announced. It was to be a gathering of every troop in the United Kingdom, and was to be held in the spacious land-locked waters of Chichester harbour. There were to be sailing and motor-boat races, rowing and sculling matches, swimming and diving contests, and numerous competitions in which the Sea Scouts were to display their prowess. For those lads who were unable to come round in their own craft a splendid camping site was provided; but, as Peter Craddock remarked, a lot of the fun would be missed if the “Otters” had to hike it by road, and then be compelled to see others display their seamanship, they themselves being unable to compete in friendly rivalry. Without the Puffin, the outlook seemed a bit disappointing.

Then, quite unexpectedly, a chance presented itself. The Scoutmaster heard of a suitable craft offered for sale at a very reasonable figure owing to the present owner finding himself unable to carry out his original intentions.

She was an ex-naval “launch”—a boat propelled either by sail or oars—of very substantial construction and only a few years old. She was forty-two feet in length and diagonal built. That is to say, she had her planks doubled, those forming the outer skin running diagonally on those of the inner skin. This system resulted in great strength of hull, while in addition the edges of the planking were “flush,” otherwise a smooth surface.

Her present owner had intended to convert the launch into a ketch yacht, and had already given her a fairly deep iron keel and had commenced to deck her in and build a cabin. Then he “stuck” owing to lack of funds; and to make the best of his bargain offered the craft as she stood.

“As she stood,” meant that she was lying afloat at Polkebo Creek, a remote inlet of the spacious Cornish harbour of Falmouth, which was a long way from Aberstour.

The Sea Scouts held a council of ways and means. Fortunately they had seven weeks’ holiday. The proposal of a trip to Falmouth to bring back the boat seemed alluring. As for the completion of the conversion job, the lads were all handy with carpenters’ tools: their Troop funds were enough to justify the expenses.

The deal was completed, and the “Otters” lost no time in proceeding to Falmouth and taking over the new craft.

Compared with the Puffin she was a lump of a boat. With her newly fitted iron keel she was “as stiff as a house.” Her original masts, sails, anchor, chain and other gear were stored in a shed adjoining the creek. Timber and other necessary material were readily procurable at Falmouth. Most of these were brought by water in a serviceable 14-foot dinghy that had been included in the bargain.

Work progressed apace. The Sea Scouts stuck it gamely, cheerfully working long hours in the assurance that theirs was a labour of love for that fickle taskmistress the sea. The kindly fisherfolk of Polkebo took great interest in “them young furriners,” giving the amateur shipwrights many useful hints and, what was more, helpful assistance.

There was one exception, however. That was Carlo Bone, generally known as Blueskin, a hulking lout of about thirty and the despair of the district. He was tall, heavily built and, with proper exercise and clean living, ought to have been a formidable figure in the old Cornish pastime of wrestling. Unfortunately he showed no inclination either to work or to play decently. When sheer necessity compelled him to work, he sometimes shipped on board a coaster. The local fisherfolk knew him only too well, and there was never a berth for him in the pilchard fleet. During his many spells of idleness “on the beach,” he spent all the time the Law allows in lounging in public-houses. He was a cunning poacher, but he had never been caught in the act. Rumour had it that he combined the undesirable occupations of thief and smuggler. Already his evil life had left its mark. His face was flabby, and his features were of a purplish hue. Hence his name Blueskin.

Blueskin had a grievance against the Sea Scouts. He had hoped to obtain possession of the ex-Service launch by fair means or, preferably, by foul; but the late owner had refused to part with the boat merely on vague promises to pay, coming as they did from Carlo Bone. From morning to night, except when the “Dog and Gun” was open, Blueskin would lounge about on the quayside and bombard the lads with sarcastic and offensive remarks, attempting in vain to make them abandon their task.

On the afternoon on which this story opens, Mr. Grant and Sea Scout Carline had rowed to the Prince of Wales’s pier at Falmouth to bring off provisions and sundry stores. It was now nearly ten o’clock, and they had not returned. The long Cornish twilight was setting in. In another twenty minutes, night would have fallen. For a wonder, Blueskin’s now familiar and unwelcome figure had not put in an appearance that evening.

“Knock off now, lads!” ordered Brandon. “It’s been a long day, but we simply had to finish that bulkhead. Start the stove, Wilson, my lad. I don’t suppose Mr. Grant will be much longer. He’s got a fair tide up.”

Wilson went below, leaving the Patrol Leader, Craddock, Talbot, and Heavitree to put away the tools and to spread a tarpaulin over the as yet unpainted cabin-top.

At that moment the Sea Scouts noticed Carlo Bone slouching towards the quay. At every few steps he stopped and tugged savagely at a length of rope, the while cursing loudly. At the other end of the rope was a dog, or rather a puppy of about two months.

With the instinctiveness of its kind, the little animal realised that something more unpleasant than its usual treatment at the hands of its brutal owner was in store for it. Vainly it tried to break away, only to be jerked remorselessly onwards.

“The cad!” muttered Craddock. “He’s doing that just to make us lose our tempers. He knows Mr. Grant isn’t here, and there isn’t a policeman to be seen anywhere about.”

Peter Craddock was perfectly right in his surmise. Blueskin was doing his best to pick a quarrel at the expense of the little animal’s life. Deliberately, as far as his unsteady gait permitted, he dragged the puppy to the edge of the quay, where in full view of the Sea Scouts he bent the free end of the rope round a heavy stone.

For a wonder he said nothing; but the ugly leer on his flabby face was enough. He was going to drown the dog before the eyes of the practically helpless Sea Scouts. Nothing short of a display of concerted brute force could stop him. He knew that. There is no law in the country to prevent a man drowning his own dog, provided he does it with reasonable celerity.

The Sea Scouts scrambled on to the quay.

“What are you going to do?” demanded Brandon.

“Gwine ter du? Seems you’ve no eyes, like,” retorted Blueskin thickly. “You’m not th’ ones tu stop I.”

“Will you sell us the dog?” asked the Patrol Leader.

“Noa, I won’t,” was the ungracious reply. “Thet pup ain’t no gude tu noabody. Teared my boots tu pieces, ’e did; so in t’water ’e goes. Get out o’ my way, I tell ye.”

The other Sea Scouts looked helplessly at the Patrol Leader. Brandon gave no sign. In the circumstances things looked hopeless. Blueskin had the whip-hand; or at least he thought he had.

He lifted both the puppy and the stone from the ground. . . . Grinned tauntingly at the lads. . . . Prepared to hurl the terrified animal to its doom.

Stepping behind his chums, Peter Craddock felt for his keen-edged knife. He had the ready knack of opening it with one hand. He did so, and as unostentatiously released it from the swivel.

“Let the brute throw the dog in,” he whispered in Brandon’s ear. “Don’t attempt to stop him.”

The Patrol Leader turned in amazement. One look at his chum’s determined features told him that Peter Craddock had something up his sleeve. Peter had: in a double sense. The keen blade, edge outwards, was nestling against his wrist.

There was a splash. The puppy, weighted by the heavy stone, struck the water six feet below the quay. A second later and Peter Craddock took a magnificent header close to the spot where the little animal had disappeared.

Craddock was a splendid diver. Three years in succession he had won a prize in the plate-diving competition at the Aberstour Regatta, and now he was putting his skill to a practical test.

It was a difficult matter to see under the water in the failing daylight, but before the stone touched bottom, Peter’s left hand caught the fiercely struggling puppy. One quick movement of the keen knife and the deed was done. Still retaining his hold of the released animal, Craddock shot to the surface, and amidst the ringing cheers of his now thoroughly excited chums struck out for the stone steps at the end of the quay.

But Blueskin had yet to be reckoned with.

“That’s my pup,” he declared angrily, planting himself in front of the dripping Sea Scout. “ ’And ’im ower tu me. In ’e goes intu the ditch agen, I tells yu.”

“Excuse me,” protested Peter coolly. “It was yours. When you threw the dog in you threw away all rights to it. It’s ours now. . . . Take charge of it, please, Brandon.”

The Patrol Leader took the shivering pup. The animal, fearing further punishment, struggled frantically to gain the shelter of its rescuer’s protecting arms.

Carlo Bone was flabbergasted. His slowly acting brain was trying to think out the problem. No doubt that interfering “furriner” was right. He was a fool not to stop him from diving to the rescue. There yet remained the question of brute force. He would be more than a match for the whole crowd of “they Sea Scoutses.”

“Gimme that dawg!” he shouted, striding towards the Patrol Leader.

Peter barred his way. Blueskin aimed a vicious blow at Craddock’s chest. The Sea Scout, in successfully evading the massive fist, stepped backwards. As he did so his rubber-soled shoes slithered on the stones, for no footgear is proof against the slippery quays of the West Country where fish have just been landed. He fell. The bully promptly dealt him a kick with his heavy sea-boot.

There is a limit to human endurance, even to that of a well-disciplined patrol of Scouts. In an instant Fred Heavitree planted himself between Blueskin and the prostrate Craddock.

Heavitree was the latest recruit to the “Otters.” He was a tall, slim youth of a somewhat retiring disposition, keen at his work and yet never before displaying any signs of unusual strength and activity. His chums were about to get one of life’s surprises; so was Blueskin.

“Keep back, you fellows,” cautioned Heavitree in a low yet compelling tone.

The bully, thinking he had an easy task, let out a terrific left. Had it reached its objective, Heavitree would have been lifted clean off his feet. The Sea Scout was unable to spring back out of harm’s way, because Craddock was still on the ground. Instead, without moving his feet, he inclined his body from the waist.

Blueskin’s fist met nothing more resisting than air. Before he could recover his balance, the Sea Scout had him properly. A tremendous thud as Heavitree’s left caught the bully fairly between the eyes was almost simultaneously followed by a heavy right straight to the solar plexus.

Heavitree stood his ground, guarding to meet a counter-attack. It was a judicious but unnecessary precaution, for Carlo Bone, his arms whirling like windmills, staggered backwards for three or four yards, and collapsed in a heap upon the rough pavement.

CHAPTER II
The Mascot

For some moments the Sea Scouts remained dumbfounded at their chum’s prowess. Heavitree, by far the least perturbed, stood silently regarding the prostrate form of his late antagonist.

“You’ve killed him, Fred,” exclaimed Wilson.

“Not I,” replied Heavitree. “He’ll be all right in ten minutes or so, ’cept perhaps for a bad headache. Did he give you much of a hack, Peter?”

“He tried to,” said Craddock, as he examined his shin. The skin had been slightly lacerated and was bleeding a little. The moisture draining from the Sea Scout’s saturated shorts and mingling with the crimson fluid made the abrasion look far worse than it actually was. “He tried to; but his feet sort of side-slipped. My word, Fred! That was a knock-out blow. Where did you learn that?”

Before the specialist in the art of “knocking out” could reply, a number of fisherfolk and villagers came hurrying to the quay. One of the number had seen Blueskin floored, and had communicated the news to the frequenters of the “Dog and Gun,” with the result that “closing time” was anticipated for the first time in the annals of that ancient inn to the extent of nearly three minutes.

“Sakes, if ’tisn’t Blueskin!” exclaimed a bearded fisherman. “Laid out prapper-like, tu. ’Ave ye been hittin’ he ower head with a hammer?”

“No,” replied Brandon. “He went for one of us: kicked him. So Heavitree knocked him down.”

“What with?” asked the astonished Cornishman.

“His fist. It was a fair blow,” declared the Patrol Leader.

“Did he now? Us ’ud think ’twould take more’n a fist tu settle the loikes of ’e. We’m right glad, we’m is; but harkee—Blueskin’s a twi’ble dangerous man to fall foul wi’. He’ll get his own back, loike, e’en if he’s tu wait ten year. Isn’t that so, friends?”

The other villagers nodded their heads.

“We’ll look out, then,” rejoined Brandon. “Well, there’s nothing more to be done, I take it. Come on, Peter, and change your gear.”

With the rescued puppy nestling in the Patrol Leader’s arms the Sea Scouts returned on board, leaving the Polkebo folk to carry the still unconscious form of their unpopular fellow-villager to the ramshackle and sordid cottage which he called his home.

The Sea Scouts crowded into their partly finished cabin. The lamp had been lighted; a large iron kettle was on the stove. Compared with the comfortable cabin of the little Puffin, the place looked barn-like and cheerless. It had yet to be made into a really habitable cabin, but even now it was rain-proof and afforded the lads a shelter even if it were a case of “sleeping rough.”

“Rummy looking little beast, what?” commented Brandon, pausing in the act of drying the puppy’s coat to study the general appearance of the rescued animal. Even for a puppy its hair was long, its ears drooping. Neck, chest and forefeet were white, as was a blaze extending almost to the tip of its jet-black nose. The rest of the fur was of a dark grey hue.

“It’s our mascot, anyway,” declared Wilson. “My word, Peter; you were pretty smart in diving after it.”

“Was I?” rejoined Craddock in a muffled tone as he struggled into a dry jersey. “I hadn’t any idea how long I was under. It was just luck grabbing the pup as I did.”

“What shall we call it?” enquired Symington.

“That’s for Peter to say,” replied Brandon. “He saved the pup. . . . Hello! Here’s the dinghy alongside.”

“Sorry I’m late, lads!” exclaimed Mr. Grant, as he stepped into the cabin, blinking as he did so at the strong light compared to the darkness without. “We’ve had rather an interesting yarn with Scoutmaster Pendennis, haven’t we, Carline? His Sea Scouts are going to the Jamboree, too; so we’ll—Hello! What’s that?”

“Our mascot, sir,” replied Brandon, holding out the pup for inspection.

“Where did you get it from?” asked Mr. Grant.

“It was that chap Carlo Bone’s, sir,” was the somewhat vague reply.

The Scoutmaster showed no great enthusiasm over the announcement. He did not like the idea of the lads accepting any favours from a surly good-for-nothing rascal of that type.

“Did he give it you?” he asked.

“No, sir,” replied the Patrol Leader. “He threw the pup into the creek, and Peter fetched it out. Then——”

“Suppose you tell the yarn from the beginning, Brandon,” said Mr. Grant quietly. “This sounds rather interesting.”

Frank Brandon did so. The Scoutmaster listened without making any comment until the story was completed.

“It served Blueskin right,” he remarked. “I’m sorry we’ve had a row, but he evidently asked for it. We’ll have to be careful when he’s about. I didn’t know, you were a budding pugilist, Heavitree. Where did you learn to use your fists?”

“At school, sir. We were taught boxing. I was supposed to be rather good at it; only one day I hit a fellow rather hard. It was a sparring match. I really didn’t mean to hurt him, but I did. After that I felt afraid of myself and dropped boxing.”

“We’ve won our mascot, haven’t we, sir?” enquired Brandon.

Mr. Grant assented.

“We were going to give it a name when you came back, sir,” said Peter.

“Carry on, then,” prompted the Scoutmaster. “What do you suggest?”

“Bruin, sir; it’s like a teddy bear.”

“H’m!” exclaimed Mr. Grant dubiously. “It’s hardly the correct thing to call a female dog by a masculine name. You’d better start on another tack. Well, that’s a matter for you fellows to discuss. How have you been getting on?”

“We’ve finished the bulkhead to your cabin,” announced Peter. “The cabin-top has had the first coat of paint ready for the canvas to be stretched. Wilson and Talbot have been fitting the bunks in the main cabin, so we won’t have to sleep on the floor in future.”

“That’s good!” said Mr. Grant encouragingly. “To-morrow if it’s fine we’ll polish off that cabin-top. We ought to have the masts stepped, and the standing rigging set up by the end of the week. That reminds me: Scoutmaster Pendennis is taking a patrol to the Jamboree in the Merlin. We’ll be cruising in company unless the Merlin is too smart for us. I hope our craft will prove to be fairly fast—enough to keep up with her. Talking about names: we haven’t given our boat a name yet.”

“How would Kestrel do, sir?” suggested Brandon. “A merlin is a sort of hawk, and so is a kestrel.”

“Good idea!” agreed Mr. Grant. “Now, you fellows: supper and bed. We’ve another long day’s work in front of us to-morrow. I don’t fancy Mr. Carlo Bone will favour us with his undesirable attendance to-night.”

In ordinary circumstances the Sea Scouts slept like logs. Already they were quite hardened to lying on bare boards. To-night for the first time since their arrival at Polkebo Creek, they were sleeping either on bunks extending the whole length and both sides of the main saloon or in hammocks slung from the beams. Yet, in spite of the great improvement in comfort, they showed no inclination for repose. They chattered, discussing a suitable name for their mascot and going over the events of that memorable evening until Mr. Grant’s voice, coming from the adjoining cabin, bade them keep quiet.

After that the silence was broken only by the whimpering of the puppy. She, too, was doubtless going through the terrifying time when she was struggling under water weighted down by a stone.

It was not until Peter Craddock put his arm over the side of his bunk and stroked the now soft, silky hair that the little animal quieted down. Licking the hand of her rescuer, she gave a little sigh of gratification and confidence and dropped into a sound slumber.

Bodily tired though he was, Peter simply could not sleep. He lay thinking and thinking—which is a jolly bad symptom in a healthy youth. He was puzzling his brains to decide upon a suitable name for the Kestrel’s mascot.

Presently he realised that fine rain was falling on the tarpaulin placed over the uncompleted cabin-top. It was a strange sort of rain—falling intermittently. It smelt strange, too.

“Petrol!” thought the lad.

He sniffed suspiciously. This surmise was confirmed. The interior of the cabin was reeking with the fumes of that highly inflammable spirit.

In a flash the Sea Scout’s mind was alert.

There could be but one solution to the mystery. Blueskin, utterly reckless in his mad desire to revenge himself, was spraying petrol on the yacht’s deck. At any moment a lighted match thrown by the miscreant on the quayside would make the Kestrel a mass of flaming woodwork.

CHAPTER III
An All-Night Watch

Peter Craddock had to decide promptly upon his plan of action. Two courses suggested themselves: either to arouse Mr. Grant and give the alarm, or else to scare the miscreant away.

He decided upon the latter plan. Too much valuable time would be wasted in waking the Scoutmaster. More than likely the other Sea Scouts would be roused; and then, if one of them struck a match, the highly explosive mixture of air and petrol in the cabin would go up with terrific force. No; his best plan would be to frighten away the cowardly rogue, who was certainly counting upon the supposition that the crew of the Kestrel were sleeping soundly, in order to carry out his diabolical plan.

Grasping an electric torch that he always kept within hand’s reach during the night watches, Peter slipped out of his bunk, glided noiselessly out of the cabin, and gained the cockpit. Then, directing the torch towards the quay, he released a dazzling ray.

He was too late to spot the miscreant. In spite of the Sea Scout’s cautious movements, the man had heard the disturbing sounds. Afraid to complete his dastardly work, the fellow had taken to his heels. Peter could hear his boots clattering upon the stone paving.

It was now almost dead low water. The Kestrel was high and dry, supported by legs and lying parallel to and at a distance of a couple of yards from the quay, the edge of which rose quite eight feet above the deck. Consequently the quay served as a ridge to prevent the rays of Peter’s torch sweeping the whole extent of the open expanse between the line of cottages and the creek.

By the time Craddock had gained the cabin-top, whence he could command a view of the adjoining ground, the fellow had disappeared. Although this escape of the miscreant was a disappointment, Peter realised that his hideous plans had been frustrated.

“Who’s there?” enquired Mr. Grant’s voice from the cabin. Aroused by Craddock’s movements—and it is remarkable how plainly the faintest sound can be heard on deck when only three-quarters of an inch of matchboarding intervenes—the Scoutmaster sat up, listening intently. Evidently the fumes of the petrol had not as yet penetrated the bulkhead separating his cabin from the one in which the seven Sea Scouts slept.

Before replying Peter re-entered the saloon. As he did so the puppy gave an aggressive growl. Brandon woke up.

“Phew!” he ejaculated. “What a whiff!”

“It is,” agreed Peter. “Turn out, old son, and rouse the others. Don’t let any of them strike a light. The place is chock full of petrol fumes.”

“What’s that—petrol fumes?” demanded Mr. Grant from the partitioned-off cabin.

“Yes, sir,” replied Craddock. “Can you come on deck? I’ve a torch handy.”

By this time the other Sea Scouts with one exception were “beginning to sit up and take notice.” During the process, Talbot, who was sleeping in a hammock, bumped his head against a deck beam. His swaying resting-place swayed still more, slinging him out and depositing him on one of the bunks where Wilson was sleeping soundly. Mutual protests arose only to be checked by the Patrol Leader, who bade the pair, “Stow that row and get your things on.”

Meanwhile Mr. Grant had hurriedly dressed. Making sure that every lad realised the supreme importance of refraining from striking a match, he told Brandon, Craddock, Heavitree, and Carline to follow him while the others dispersed the dangerous fumes from the interior of the saloon.

“Which way did the fellow go, Peter?” asked Mr. Grant.

Craddock told him.

“Away from his cottage, then,” continued the Scoutmaster. “Good! We’ll picket the place. A scoundrel like that deserves all he gets; but it’s just possible that he didn’t realise what might have happened. His idea might have been to set the yacht on fire and give us a scare. He may not know the properties of air and petrol as an explosive mixture. Although he only squirted the petrol on the tarpaulin on the cabin-top, the fumes, being heavier than the atmosphere, settled inside the boat.”

Accompanied by the four Sea Scouts, Mr. Grant made his way to Carlo Bone’s cottage, a ramshackle stone structure of two storeys situated about a hundred yards from the furthermost row of houses that formed the hamlet of Polkebo. At the back was a neglected garden of about a quarter of an acre in extent and enclosed by a low wall of ashlar masonry. There were two doors to the cottage, one opening directly upon the street, and gained by a flight of eight stone steps; the other led into the garden and was also reached by steps. The windows were small, heavily barred, and so high from the ground that it was impossible for anyone to see in without the aid of a ladder.

“It wants an hour and a half to sunrise,” remarked Mr. Grant, after he had consulted the luminous dial of his wristlet watch. “Possibly Mr. Bone will return before then. I doubt whether he has had time to do so already. In any case, we’ll investigate.”

Posting Brandon and Heavitree at the front of the cottage, Mr. Grant followed by Craddock and Carline, scaled the low wall and crept up to the back door. The Scoutmaster flashed his torch upon the latch. A spider had built a web across the door. The air was warm and saturated with dew, and glistening particles of moisture hung from the undisturbed web. In fact, webs abounded. Almost every tree and shrub was festooned with them.

Obviously Blueskin had not re-entered his cottage by that door. Satisfied on that ground, Mr. Grant withdrew with his companions. The garden was, after all, private property. Legally the would-be victims were trespassing. In addition, they were laying themselves open to an act of violence should Carlo Bone return and find them there. The poacher, according to report, would not hesitate to use a gun or a knife should he find himself cornered.

Mr. Grant, however, had no wish to corner the fellow. For the present he wanted to be in a position to prove that Blueskin was the perpetrator of the outrage and a step in that direction was to be able to make certain that the man was away from his cottage. If so, on his return he would be almost sure to bring with him the reek of petrol, even if he had got rid of the implements by which he had sprayed the fluid.

“Now, you fellows,” he said in a low voice, addressing Craddock and Carline, “I want you to keep a sharp look-out on the back of the cottage. Take cover, and keep your eyes and ears on the alert.”

“And if he shows up, sir, do we tackle him?” asked Peter.

“Rather not; that’s a job for the police. I’ll look you up occasionally. I’ll see what Brandon and Heavitree are doing.”

Before rejoining the Sea Scouts posted in concealment in the front of the building, Mr. Grant examined the front door. Here, as in the case of the back entrance, the presence of an undisturbed spider’s web gave conclusive proof that Blueskin had not entered the cottage by that means. Since he could not do so through the barred windows, the inference was that he was still away.

For the rest of the hours of darkness, the Scoutmaster divided his time between the Kestrel and the two observation posts. Everything seemed quiet. No sound came from either within or without the darkened cottage. If Carlo Bone were to return, it seemed probable that he would do so before dawn in order to avoid recognition from any of the early risers of the hamlet.

At length grey dawn paled in the north-eastern sky. The birds began singing, cocks crowed. The mist over the creek drifted slowly in the faint air-currents. In one of the cottages smoke began to issue from the squat stone chimney.

At sunrise the Scoutmaster withdrew his observers, replacing Craddock and Heavitree by Symington and Talbot. Wilson took Carline’s place, but Craddock asked to be allowed to remain.

From the cottages men went forth unto their work and to their labour. On the rising tide the fishing boats put out. By five o’clock the whole place was astir.

Mr. Grant was frankly disappointed. The only result of the Sea Scouts’ vigil was, in his opinion, that they had proved that Carlo Bone had not returned to his cottage.

“It’s no use waiting any longer, lads,” he said. “We’ll get breakfast—you must all be ravenous—and then I’ll see the police.”

Even as he spoke, the front door of the cottage opened and Blueskin appeared. He was fully dressed, even to his cap and leather thigh-boots, while across one shoulder he carried a painted canvas sack. Both eyes were badly discoloured, and the scowling look he gave to the Sea Scouts added still further to the repulsiveness of his features. Once he paused as if he were about to utter a jibe, but thinking better of it, he trudged stolidly up the lane leading to the high road between Truro and Falmouth.

“We’ve been on the wrong tack this time, lads,” declared the Scoutmaster. “He’s been in his cottage all the time. Of course, he may have a confederate in this business: that we’ll have to find out or get the police to see to. Meanwhile, breakfast, and then all hands turn in. It’s spoilt our working day, I’m afraid.”

CHAPTER IV
Investigations

The Scoutmaster was perfectly correct in his surmise. Progress as far as the work on the Kestrel was concerned was virtually at a standstill for that day. There were limits to the Sea Scouts’ powers of endurance. The loss of a night’s rest following upon an exciting day was not to be made up by a few hours’ sleep during the forenoon.

There was little rest for Mr. Grant. After breakfast his first visit was to the police station to report the case of attempted arson. The inspector listened with ill-concealed incredulity until somewhat reluctantly the Scoutmaster mentioned the name of Carlo Bone.

“I wish to goodness you were certain that was the fellow!” exclaimed the inspector. “We’ve been wanting to lay him by the heels for months past, but we can never fix him. He’s as slippery as an eel. You say he assaulted one of your lads and got knocked down in the process. Knowing the man, I’ve no doubt but what he will try to score off you.”

“Possibly,” agreed Mr. Grant. “We felt so sure that he was the fellow that we kept watch on his cottage all night. He didn’t go into the place. There were indisputable signs to show that neither of the doors had been open for some hours. At daybreak, or just after, he emerged from the cottage and went off.”

“H’m!” ejaculated the inspector. “On the face of it, Carlo Bone could easily establish an alibi. I know the cottage. The windows are as heavily barred as a prison. Yet, knowing Bone as I do, it wouldn’t surprise me to—— By the by, have you missed any gear? No? Well, that’s rather unfortunate in a way. Had you done so, we would examine the cottage inside and out on the strength of a search warrant.”

“Do you think he has had an accomplice?” asked the Scoutmaster.

The inspector shook his head.

“I don’t think so,” he replied. “At least, not at Polkebo and district. He’s not popular with his neighbours, and they’d welcome the news that he’s doing a stretch. You are quite sure that it was petrol that was squirted over your yacht? Did you test the stuff?”

“If you mean did we set light to it to see if it would burn—no,” answered Mr. Grant. “Apart from that the indications were unmistakable.”

“I’ll send a constable down to keep an eye on things,” decided the inspector. “I don’t think you’ll have any trouble when he’s about.”

Mr. Grant thanked the police official and set off back to the boat. He was not at all easy in his mind. The situation in a nutshell was this: Some person or persons unknown had been guilty of a dastardly attempt to injure the lads under his care. Blueskin might be, and probably was, innocent of any knowledge of the matter. The miscreant might be a homicidal lunatic or a person harbouring an imaginary grudge against the crew of the Kestrel.

The Scoutmaster was within fifty yards of Carlo Bone’s cottage when the toe of his boot kicked against a metallic object hidden in the long grass by the side of the path. He stopped and pulled aside the shoots. There, with one end overhanging a shallow dry ditch, was a garden syringe. The brasswork was dull, but not tarnished. The rim of the jet-nozzle was fairly bright, showing that at no distant date someone had had to use considerable force to remove it from the threaded end of the barrel.

Cautiously Mr. Grant removed the plunger and smelt the inside of the barrel. There were no fumes of petrol, but—significant fact—the leather washer, which usually is well saturated with oil, was bone dry. Had the syringe been used for squirting water the leather would have retained its dampness.

Mr. Grant’s next step was to go to the “Dog and Gun,” and ask for Silas Pescold, the landlord. Silas was a respected man in the little village, and one who would be likely to identify the syringe.

He did without hesitation.

“Sure, zur,” he exclaimed. “Yes, Dick Marner’s. Many’s the time I’ve borried et of him.”

“Marner? That’s the man who walks lame, doesn’t he?”

“Yes, zur; ’e broke ’is thigh come twenty year agone aboard the old Sarah. Sin’ then, seeing as ’e’s no good in the boats, ’e’s been doin’ odd gardenin’ jobs for the quality hereabouts. Like as not you’ll find him up-along. ’E lives in t’end cottage past the quay.”

The end cottage past the quay! It was in this direction that the miscreant had made off when Peter Craddock interrupted his operations.

Marner was at home. It was one of his bad days. The easterly wind generally affected his damaged hip.

“Is this your property?” asked Mr. Grant, holding up the syringe for inspection.

“Sure, ’tes, zur,” assented the old chap without hesitation. “If you’m wishful tu borrer ut you’m kindly welcome.”

“I haven’t come to borrow it, Mr. Marner,” rejoined Mr. Grant. “I’m here to return it to you. I found it up the lane. Silas Pescold told me it was yours.”

The old man puckered up his eye in astonishment.

“Found ’ut up-along, did ’e, zur?” he exclaimed. “That be tur’ble queer, seein’ as I locked ut in the shed las’ night.”

“At about what time?”

“Afore it wur dark, zur.”

“Evidently someone has broken into the shed,” remarked Mr. Grant. “Have you been there to-day? Perhaps it would be as well if you did. I’ll come with you, if I may?”

The old man led the way up a steeply sloping garden. In a corner formed by the junction of two hedges was a tumble-down structure composed of boats’ planking, weatherboards, corrugated iron, and tarred felt. The lock was in position, but it was one of those cheap varieties which could easily be picked by means of a piece of bent wire.

Marner threw open the door. Within were a number of gardening tools, a pile of old sacks, a motor bicycle, and two tins of petrol.

“That’s where I kept un,” declared Marner. “It be gone, as ye see, zur. Nothin’ else be touched as far as I can see.”

“Evidently someone borrowed it and lost it,” said the Scoutmaster. “That’s a nice motor bike: you don’t ride it, do you, Mr. Marner?”

The old man chuckled wheezily.

“Not wi’ this leg, zur. Yes, tes my boy Richard’s; same name as mine ’e be called. ’E wur a Scout same as your lads.”

“Well, I hope Master Richard isn’t mixed up in this business,” thought the Scoutmaster; then, aloud: “He’s not a Scout now, is he?”

Marner chuckled again.

“ ’E’s mate aboard th’ tawps’l schooner Huterp o’ Fowey,” he announced proudly. “She’s gone foreign wi’ a cargo o’ clay. Where eggsackly I can’t remember like. Reckon she’s about due back come a week or so; an’ if so happen you’m still hereabouts ye might see ’im.”

Mr. Grant gave a sigh of relief. It was with no slight degree of satisfaction that he realised the impossibility of Dick Marner, ex-Scout and the apple of the father’s eye, being implicated in this unpleasant business.

The while he was conversing with the old man, Mr. Grant kept his eyes wide open. There was nothing of the nature of a clue as far as the shed was concerned. The floor was of hard trodden clay. No tell-tale footprints had left their mark. Both petrol cans, judging by the undisturbed dust on them, had not been touched since Richard Marner, junior, had shipped on board the topsail schooner Euterpe of Fowey. But obviously the fellow who had broken into the shed knew his bearings. He was aware that there was a syringe; he wanted it, so he went to work to take it without disturbing anything else.

“Do you know of any of your neighbours who would borrow the syringe without asking you if they might?” enquired the Scoutmaster.

“No, zur,” replied Marner. “But why’m you so askifying? You’m questionin’ me same as if I wur a pickpocket at Bodmin Fair.”

It was a perfectly reasonable request. In the circumstances, Mr. Grant realised that it was only fair to old Marner to explain the facts that led up to his visit.

“An’ you’m come here thinkin’ as ’ow my son Dick had a-set fire to your boat?” demanded old Marner angrily.

Mr. Grant hastened to pour uninflammable oil upon troubled waters. In this he ultimately succeeded, and, taking leave of the old man, he returned to the Kestrel. So far his investigation had drawn blank; but, he reflected, his task was to prevent a repetition of the dastardly attempt. The detection of the offender might well be left in the hands of the police.

CHAPTER V
Adrift

For the next six or seven days the work of getting the Kestrel ready for sea proceeded apace. The final coat of paint had been applied and was now dry. Sails had been bent; running rigging overhauled and rove; extra ballast in the form of iron pigs had been stowed under the floor. Fresh water and provisions had been brought on board, and although there remained a considerable amount of “finishing off” work to be done, the Kestrel was in a fit and seaworthy condition to attempt her voyage up Channel.

No other disquieting incident had occurred during the period, while to add to the serenity of the situation definite information had been received that Blueskin Bone had shipped on board a tramp steamer at Falmouth and was now on his way to Rotterdam.

Meanwhile the Kestrel’s mascot had been making steady progress. After much deliberation the Sea Scouts had decided to bestow the name of Molly upon the little animal. She was no longer the terrified, half-drowned puppy that Peter had rescued from the dark waters of the creek. Her coat, carefully combed and brushed, had acquired a gloss; her ribs were no longer painfully in evidence. Already she realised that a human hand could be something else than a means of imparting pain, although it was some time before she ceased to cringe in fear of a possible unwarranted thrashing.

“I wish Molly would be a little bit livelier,” remarked Peter. “I’ve never seen such a sedate pup.”

“Don’t you worry, old son,” rejoined Brandon. “She’s all right. P’raps before long she’ll be too lively, even for you. How about a collar for her?”

“Later on,” decided Craddock. “If she had one now she’d grow out of it in a week or so. I’ll make one when we’re under way. As it is, we haven’t a minute to spare.”

That was a fact. Time was getting on, and there was still much to be done if the Kestrel were to sail in company with the Merlin.

At length the eve of the eventful day arrived. To-morrow at the hour of ten in the morning the voyage up Channel was timed to commence, that hour being fixed to enable both yachts to take advantage of the first of the east-going tide.

The Kestrel, glistening in her new coat of paint, looked very different from the half-completed craft the Sea Scouts had taken over only a short while ago. She was now a ketch-rigged yacht with a spacious cockpit and ample accommodation under her cabin-top. Her original sails had been altered to form a serviceable and yet moderate spread of canvas. The only thing wanting was a motor; but, as Craddock observed, “Drake hadn’t a motor when he sailed round the world; so we ought to manage to find our way up Channel without one.”

“All the same I wish we had an engine,” said Carline. “The Kestrel is a whopping lump of a craft to move in a dead calm.”

“We may get a motor some day,” added Mr. Grant. “When we’ve been shipmates with one the lack of an engine seems a serious matter. We must cut our coat according to our cloth, you know. Now, lads, the tide’s making well. We’re nearly afloat, so get busy.”

The Kestrel was to be taken from Polkebo Creek that evening and sailed down to a berth off Greenbank at Falmouth, where the Merlin was lying, in order that both craft might start together.

Almost everyone in Polkebo turned out to see the Kestrel start, for with one exception (and he, it was to be hoped, was far away) the inhabitants of the hamlet were on excellent terms with the Aberstour Sea Scouts. There was also much speculation on the part of the professional seafaring folk as to how the amateur-altered ex-Service launch, manned chiefly by lads in their teens, would be handled.

Although there was a steady leading wind the houses and trees blanketed most of it; so without difficulty canvas was set, sheets overrun, and all preparation made before the rising tide floated the yacht off.

“She’ll do it now, lads,” exclaimed Mr. Grant. “Head-sheet to wind’ard, then! Cast off for’ard!”

The Kestrel held only by the stern-warp, swung slowly on her heel. She was afloat all right.

“Let go aft!” ordered the Scoutmaster. “Trim your fore and jib sheets.”

Almost imperceptibly the Kestrel, steady as a rock, gathered way. The crowd ashore cheered. The Sea Scouts responded lustily. The gap between the yacht and the quay widened. The water began to ripple under the yacht’s forefoot. She heeled to the strengthening breeze.

“Take her, Brandon,” said Mr. Grant, relinquishing the tiller. “She’ll do.”

Against the still flowing tide the Kestrel made steady progress. She was “as stiff as a house,” and showed a decided tendency to carry weather-helm—a qualification that all craft under sail must possess if they are to be accounted seaworthy.

In less than half an hour the Kestrel hove-to within fifty yards of the Merlin, on which Scoutmaster Pendennis and his crew of hefty Cornish Sea Scouts were awaiting their approach.

“Sorry there are no moorings for you!” hailed Mr. Pendennis. “Let go your anchor. Tide’s slackening. She’ll ride head to wind all right.”

The anchor was dropped, sails stowed, riding light trimmed ready to be hoisted at sunset. For the rest of the evening the crews “palled up,” some of the Kestrel’s going aboard the Merlin, while a part of the latter’s complement came over to the Kestrel.

At sunset the Sea Scouts returned to their respective craft, had supper, and turned in. Giving a final look round and satisfying himself that the riding-light was burning clearly, Mr. Grant followed the example of his crew.

“No need to turn out before seven,” he announced. “Get in a good night’s rest while you’ve the chance. You never know when you’ll get another when we’re under way.”

Peter Craddock was the first to awake. A pale grey light was filtering through the skylight. The Kestrel was rolling slightly, and the dinghy had just commenced to bump alongside.

“Turn of the tide, I expect,” thought the lad drowsily. “It can’t be much more than five o’clock. Too soon to turn out.”

Casually he glanced at his watch; looked again and then held it to his ear. It was ticking merrily. The hands pointed to twenty minutes past seven. By that time it ought to be broad daylight. It wasn’t.

Somewhat mystified, Peter rolled out of his bunk and went on deck. To his surprise a thick fog enveloped everything. From the companion ladder it was only just possible to discern the lower part of the mizzen-mast looking grotesquely distorted in the watery haze. An uncanny silence prevailed. No sounds came from the near-by town. Then the distant wail of a syren came through the mist.

According to the state of the tide, the Kestrel should be riding to the last of the ebb. How came it then that the dinghy, instead of straining at her painter, was rubbing alongside the yacht’s quarter?

“Something wrong,” muttered Peter, and making his way for’ard along the damp and clammy waterway, he gained the bows. Then he felt the cable. The chain came up easily, and no wonder; for instead of there being ten fathoms of it, terminating in a seventy-pound anchor, only a dozen links or so were trailing uselessly through the hawse-pipe.

The Kestrel was adrift in a thick sea fog, and at the mercy of the swirling tide.

CHAPTER VI
In the Fog

“Turn out, you fellows!” shouted Craddock. “All hands on deck! We’ve parted our cable, and there’s a heavy fog on.”

The rest of the crew tumbled out of their bunks and hammocks and hurried into their clothes. They accepted Peter’s statement without any hesitation, for it was one of the few hard-and-fast rules on board that on no account was a false alarm to be knowingly raised. Skylarking in its proper place was encouraged and harmless practical joking permitted; but each Sea Scout had been impressed with the seriousness of the harm that might occur by raising the nautical equivalent to the shout of “ ’Ware Wolf!” when there was not one.

In various stages of “undress uniform,” Scoutmaster and Sea Scouts gained the deck. The lads remained silent, waiting for Mr. Grant’s orders. He was frankly puzzled. The Kestrel had been anchored surrounded by yachts and boats in the crowded anchorage of Greenbank. It seemed incredible that she should have drifted any distance without fouling some of the craft in the tideway.

Craddock had reported that the cable had parted. Mr. Grant hoped that such was not the case. He had known of anchors being dropped with one of the flukes caught in the bobstay and with only the bight of the chain resting on the bottom. He rather wished such was the case now.

“Get the fog-horn, Wilson,” he ordered. “Two blasts about every minute, please. And, Craddock, you might heave the lead. The others prepare to make sail.”

Groping his way for’ard, for the fog was so thick that even the still burning riding-lamp ten feet above the deck was invisible, Mr. Grant grasped the cable and hauled in the slack. One look was sufficient. The last of the remaining links had been deliberately cut through with a hack-saw. The rest of the chain, together with the anchor, was lying on the bed of Falmouth Harbour—miles away, probably.

It was no time for feelings of resentment and anger. The Scoutmaster came aft.

“What water have we?” he asked.

“No bottom, sir,” reported Peter.

Mr. Grant gave an involuntary gasp of astonishment. The lead-line, 25 fathoms, or 150 feet, in length, was insufficient to touch the bed of the sea.

“Bend another line to it,” he continued.

“I’m doing it already, sir,” announced Craddock.

“Good! . . . Now, how much?”

“Another four fathoms, sir,” reported the leadsman.

The Scoutmaster was on the point of going below, when Wilson stopped him.

“Why are we to give two blasts, sir?” he enquired. “Oughtn’t we to sound a bell or something like that? We’re supposed to be at anchor.”

Even in his worried state of mind, Mr. Grant did not hesitate to reply.

“It puzzled me what signal to make at first,” he answered. “Although we were anchored—that is to say, I thought we were—the Kestrel had obviously moved. In that case we are under way, and although we haven’t yet made sail, what wind there is is on our port beam. Consequently it is assumed that we are on the port tack; therefore, two blasts.”

“Where are we, sir?” asked Carline.

“That’s what I want to find out,” replied Mr. Grant. “I’m going below to look at the chart.”

Within the saloon the light was so dim that the lamp had to be lighted before it was possible to read the minute figures on the chart. Very soon the Scoutmaster’s worst fears were confirmed. Nowhere within Falmouth Harbour is a depth of twenty-nine fathoms to be obtained, even at the top of high-water springs. Obviously, then, the Kestrel had drifted with the tide right out of the harbour without colliding with any other craft and fortunately clearing the dangerous Black Rock that lies in the mouth of the harbour and approximately midway between the projecting arms of Pendennis and St. Anthony. According to the soundings, the Kestrel was somewhere on a line extending from the dreaded Manacles to the Dodman, and might be anywhere between those points, a distance of approximately fifteen sea-miles.

It was not an envious position for the Kestrel to be in. There was no wind, but a very heavy fog. She might or might not be in the way of vessels making for or leaving Falmouth Harbour. If she drifted northwards she would sooner or later pile herself up upon the iron-bound coast. The same condition would apply if she drifted west’ard. Provided a breeze sprung up, the best course was to make for the open Channel, but even then there was a risk of being run down in the busy steamer track that passed a few miles to the south’ard of the Lizard. To attempt to grope their way back to Falmouth, starting from an absolutely unknown position, was out of the question.

Effectually concealing his anxiety, Mr. Grant returned on deck. By this time the Sea Scouts, under Patrol Leader Brandon’s direction, had set all plain sail. Fortunately Frank had remembered the invisible riding-light on the forestay.

In the flat calm, although there was a light swell on, the canvas hung idly. From the cockpit only a part of the mainsail as far as the upper line of reef-points and a small portion of the mizzen were visible. The rest was swallowed up in the fog.

“This is the worst fog we’ve struck,” remarked Craddock, as he coiled up the lead-line for another cast.

“It is,” agreed the Scoutmaster. “Luckily we’ve plenty of sea-room.”

“Plenty of sea-room, sir?” echoed Peter. “Where are we?”

“That, exactly, I don’t know,” confessed Mr. Grant frankly. “What I do know is that we’ve drifted right out of Falmouth Harbour and are in the English Channel. As a rule fogs don’t last very long at this time of year. When the sun is well up there’ll be a breeze and the mist will disperse. Meanwhile we must take things as we find them and be thankful they are no worse.”

“I wonder what the Merlin is doing,” remarked Brandon.

“Still on her moorings, I expect,” hazarded Heavitree. “They’ll think we’ve given them the slip.”

“If the fog’s anything like it is here they won’t know we’ve gone,” rejoined the Patrol Leader. “Unless they hail us,” he added as an afterthought. “Wonder why the cable parted? We tested it carefully when we stowed it aboard the first time.”

“This is the reason,” announced Mr. Grant, producing the cut link from his pocket. “Someone has been monkeying about with the chain. It has been deliberately cut through with a hack-saw. When and by whom remains a question.”

“Blueskin?” enquired Symington and Talbot simultaneously.

“Perhaps, but unlikely,” replied the Scoutmaster. “I’m basing my idea upon the assumption that Carlo Bone has had a sea training. Some miscreant, probably the fellow who squirted petrol over the Kestrel, has an imaginary grievance against us. He’s been trying to destroy the yacht by the most underhanded methods imaginable. Failing to set her on fire, he cut through this link, knowing that it would still bear any ordinary strain, but not a heavy one. He was counting upon the cable parting while we were riding at anchor in some harbour during a stiff gale. Now, a seaman wouldn’t cut a link in that fashion—with the cut away from the yacht’s bows. He would saw through the other end of the link so that when it did part it would go with the outboard portion of the cable, and thus cover up all trace of his underhand work.”

“But it might have been Blueskin,” remarked Wilson.

“Yes, it might,” agreed Mr. Grant, “but having misjudged him once I don’t feel justified in laying the blame upon him. Not that we are likely to discover the culprit. Now I think we might see about a somewhat belated breakfast.”

While Talbot and Wilson, “the cooks of the day,” went below to prepare the meal, the others set about various tasks on deck. Craddock continued to heave the lead at about five minutes’ intervals, the soundings remaining fairly regular. Carline took over the manipulation of the fog-horn, standing by the now useless tiller in case a puff of wind should bear down through the barrier of fog.

Brandon and Heavitree assisted the Scoutmaster to bend the cable to the kedge. Fortunately there still remained between fifteen and twenty fathoms of the former, but in the absence of a long link there was no means of shackling it direct to the kedge—a small anchor of about twenty-five pounds in weight. Consequently the chain had to be made fast to the ring in the kedge by a “fisherman’s bend,” the end being stopped with wire to guard against any possibility of the knot slipping.

“Brekker nearly ready?” enquired Brandon, calling through the open skylight.

“It is,” replied Talbot, “but you won’t get any till you’ve cleared up below.”

“By Jove!” exclaimed the Patrol Leader, “I’d forgotten that! Come on, lads; let’s square up and make all ship-shape below.”

The saloon was in a bit of an untidy state. The Sea Scouts on their hurried exit for the deck had tumbled out of bunks and hammocks, leaving the former littered with blankets and the latter swaying to and fro from the deck-beams. The bedding was passed out, shaken, and folded; the hammocks unshipped and stowed in their accustomed places when not in use. Quickly the disordered saloon assumed a semblance of tidiness.

“Where’s Molly?” enquired Brandon.

No one knew. She had been last seen asleep in a box under Craddock’s bunk.

All hands below joined in the search. They called the pup by name, hunted high and low, but without success.

“S’pose she wasn’t in one of the blankets when we shook them overboard?” suggested Heavitree.

“Now you mention it, I think I did hear a sort of splash,” said Symington. “It was too thick to see.”

“Let’s hope not,” continued Heavitree. “She’s not big enough to climb the companion ladder.”

“What’s the matter, lads?” enquired Mr. Grant, entering the cabin and removing his dripping cap.