"a regular paddy's hurricane!" commented desmond as he came on deck next morning.
not a breath of wind stirred the air. the sky was clear; the placid waters of padstow harbour were as smooth as a mirror. the smoke from the various chimneys ashore went up as straight as a plumb-line.
findlay, stopping only to tap the barometer, followed his chum into the cockpit.
"gass high and steady," he observed. "it's going to be a top-hole day. wind nor'-east, when it does come, i fancy."
"it's a good thing we have a motor," added hayes, glancing at his blistered hands. "the spindrift is a regular brute to sweep along. how's that toe of yours, desmond?"
"much better, thanks," replied the patrol leader.
mr. graham, clad like the others in a bathing-suit, came on deck, glanced over the side to make sure that the tide was slack, and gave the signal.
the next instant four distinct splashes indicated that the crew of the spindrift were taking a personal interest in the waters of padstow harbour. a vigorous swim, followed by a brisk rub-down, gave the lads a most healthy appetite.
"when do we make a start, sir?" asked desmond, during breakfast.
"as soon as we've stowed everything away," was the reply. "we've a fairly long run to-day."
"round land's end, sir?" asked hayes.
"hardly," rejoined mr. graham. "we'll have to be satisfied if we make st. ives before night. there'll be wind before very long. by the by, findlay, while we are clearing away and snugging down, you might go ashore and get a couple of tins of petrol and a quart of lubricating oil."
jock went off in the dinghy. whilst he was away hayes washed up, mr. graham dried the breakfast things, and desmond stowed them away.
"are we going to tow the yacht out with the dinghy, sir?" asked findlay on his return.
"no, we'll have the motor on the spindrift's transom," replied the scoutmaster. "for one thing, the propeller will be a fairly big drag for the dinghy when we're towing her under sail."
"we can unship it from the dinghy, sir," said findlay. "it only weighs about forty or fifty pounds."
"quite so," agreed mr. graham, "but even that weight requires some lifting in a small dinghy. if there's any roll on outside it will be a difficult matter to unclamp the motor and transfer it on board the yacht. we'll see what we can do now."
luckily the edge of the transom projected a couple or three inches above the spindrift's after-deck, and to this projection the outboard engine was clamped, and the propeller adjusted until it was the right depth below the surface. meanwhile findlay had mixed the petrol and oil in the right proportions and had filled the tank.
"we've quite a lot of water in the bilges, sir," announced hayes, who had lifted up one of the floor-boards.
"yes, by jove, we have," agreed mr. graham. "she's probably not taken up properly. get the pump going, hayes."
the sea scout fitted the plunger and primed the pump. then he gave a dozen vigorous strokes, without the desired result.
"pump's not working, sir," he declared.
the scoutmaster looked to see what was amiss. the lower valve was adrift. it was of the double-mushroom pattern, with a flange in the barrel and a nut in the suction-pipe to keep the valve in its place. removing the lower valve by means of a hooked rod, mr. graham found that the nut had come unfastened, and was probably half-way down the pipe. without it the valve was lifted completely out of its resting by the suction of the plunger.
"that's awkward, sir," said desmond. "the pipe's soldered to the barrel instead of having the usual union. what's to be done?"
"we can't go to sea with a pump out of action," rejoined the scoutmaster. "what do you suggest, desmond?"
"unshipping the whole concern and taking it ashore to be set right, sir," was the reply. "it's a plumber's job."
"it would mean a day wasted," objected findlay. "it's a pity to miss this fine weather."
"then what do you suggest, old son?" asked the patrol leader. "if you've a stunt in the back of your mind, out with it."
"i'd scrap the lower valve," declared findlay.
"but you must have one, jock," interrupted mr. graham, "otherwise the pump won't act."
"yes, sir, i know," said the sea scout. "all we want is a hollow india-rubber ball, slightly smaller than the bore of the pump, and a handful of cement. punch a small hole in the ball, fill it with dry cement, and then put it in water to set. that's your lower valve."
"yes, and i fancy that will do the trick, jock," agreed the scoutmaster. "nip ashore and see if you can get the things."
findlay made a second trip in the dinghy. during his absence the others got rid of the bilge-water by the tedious process of baling out, since some hours must necessarily elapse before the cement would set.
on jock's return the motor was started and the anchor broken out. at a modest three knots the spindrift glided easily toward the open sea, as if to demonstrate the superiority of the little 2 3/4 horse-power engine over a pair of sixteen-feet sweeps manned by sea scouts.
desmond was at the helm; the scoutmaster and findlay were engaged in setting canvas in contemplation of a breeze outside; while hayes, armed with bucket and mop, proceeded to remove the mud from the ketch's deck and to clean the slimy ooze from the anchor.
"we're in luck, sir!" exclaimed the patrol leader, as trevose lighthouse opened out on the port bow. "there's a breeze coming up right aft."
it was a fairly long time coming, but when it did arrive the breeze was a fair and steady one. the motor was switched off and hoisted inboard, sheets were trimmed, and lee-runners slacked away. although the tide was against her, the spindrift was soon slipping steadily past the rock-bound coast.
findlay set to work with the cement and the india-rubber ball. it was rather a troublesome task, as, in the rising wind, the powdered cement was blowing all over the yacht; but at last the ball was filled as tightly as possible and then dropped into a pail of water.
"it will be set by the time we drop anchor," he declared.
three hours steady run brought the spindrift abeam of newquay. then, clearing the goose and the chick—two outlying rocks—she squared off towards st. agnes' head.
"fine piece of coast, this," observed mr. graham. "you'd hardly imagine those cliffs contained little harbours that did a roaring trade in the old smuggling days. there's hanover cove, trevellas porth, and trevaunance cove—picturesque little holes that from seaward would easily pass notice."
"what's the matter with the sea, sir?" suddenly exclaimed hayes. "it's red!"
at that moment the spindrift had passed over a clearly defined line. on one side the sea was of a deep green, on the other it was of a vivid red, the red patch extending in semicircular formation with its base shorewards.
"mundic—a sort of arsenic refuse from the mines," explained the scoutmaster. "there's a large mine over there, close to trevaunance, and the pumps throw out the mundic waste into a stream that in turn carries it to the sea. all along the coast you'll see the same sort of thing. now, how about lunch, you fellows? i'm jolly hungry, if you are not."
findlay, as "cook of the day ", went below to start up the stove and prepare the meal. there was a certain amount of rivalry between the lads in the matter of providing an appetizing meal, and jock meant to "keep his end up".
presently the fragrant odour of grilled steak wafted aft. the scoutmaster, desmond, and hayes sniffed the air and nodded knowingly. jock was going to do them well.
"all ready, you fellows!" he shouted.
the spindrift was hove-to on the starboard tack, which meant that if she made any way at all it would be away from the shore. by this time the tide had changed, so that although hove-to she was still being carried towards her desired haven.
into the cabin scoutmaster and sea scouts scrambled. findlay, proud as a peacock, served up the first course—pea soup. the hungry crew attacked it ravenously. they were too eager to talk.
after a few spoonfuls desmond slowed down and watched his companions. mr. graham was somewhat critically examining the soup on his plate. hayes had given up his portion as a bad job and was awaiting corroborative evidence.
"what's wrong?" asked the patrol leader.
"i don't know," replied hayes. "it doesn't seem quite right, somehow. does it, sir?"
mr. graham, thus appealed to, was about to give his verdict when findlay came into the cabin from the fo'c'sle.
"ready for second course, sir? hello! not finished yet. is there anything wrong?"
"i suppose, jock," observed the scoutmaster, "i suppose you did make the soup from the packet labelled 'pea soup'?"
"yes, sir," replied findlay, getting red in the face.
"i thought perhaps it might have been a packet of ground oyster-shells for chickens that the grocer had given you in mistake for pea flour."
findlay tasted a spoonful of soup.
"it certainly is gritty, sir," he admitted. "all right, i'll bring the steak. hang on to those plates, hayes."
hayes, who was nearest to the fo'c'sle door, took the pile of tin plates, as requested. he promptly dropped the lot.
"they're hot!" he exclaimed, holding his tingling fingers.
"sorry," murmured jock. "i meant them to be warmed. pick them up with that cloth. i'm bringing in the steak and potatoes."
judging by the rich brown appearance and savoury odour, the steak was done to a turn. but alas! both meat and potatoes were as gritty and as unpalatable as the pea soup. it was only by carefully scraping the steak on all sides that it could be rendered eatable; while the potatoes, boiled to softness, would not yield to such treatment. nor was the bread much better.
"i can't think what's happened, sir," said findlay, abjectly apologetic.
"i can tell you, i think," rejoined the scoutmaster. "everything's smothered with cement dust, and the powder has solidified into little pellets. look! this shelf is thick with white dust."
desmond laughed good-humouredly.
"poor old jock evidently forgot that we belong to the seal patrol, sir," he exclaimed. "he thinks we are ostriches. ostriches swallow chunks of stone and nails, don't they, sir?"
there was yet another course—jam tart—but findlay had not the courage to produce it. surreptitiously, a couple of hours later, he dropped it overboard. the pastry, as hard as iron, sank like a stone, which was not to be wondered at when jock found that the remainder of the cement had toppled over into the jar containing the flour. in the dim light of the fo'c'sle he had failed to notice the catastrophe—hence the pastry composed of flour and cement in almost equal parts.
there was nothing to be done but to fall back upon bully beef and biscuits. fortunately, these were in air-tight tins and had escaped the sand-storm which had swept over the cabin and fo'c'sle.
"cheer up, jock!" exclaimed mr. graham. "there's no harm done." ("i don't know about that," remarked hayes sotto voce.) "it's merely a little object lesson in the advantages and disadvantages of the use of portland cement."
