"fog's lifting, sir!"
the scoutmaster opened his eyes and blinked at the welcome light. the good news seemed too soon to be true, but right ahead the sun was visible—a watery disc looming faintly through the dispersing vapour.
"nine o'clock!" exclaimed mr. graham. "have i slept all that time?"
"only four hours, sir," replied jock. "nothing's happened, so we let you sleep on."
stiffly, the scoutmaster sat up. a grating makes a hard bed, oilskins and greatcoat notwithstanding. looking over the port coaming of the cockpit he found that the range of vision was limited to a distance of about a hundred yards, but there were indications that matters would improve in that direction. the wind too had increased, and was blowing more to the starboard quarter.
"that's much better, lads!" exclaimed the scoutmaster. "i hope we've seen the last of the fog. it hung about much longer than usual."
"where are we, sir?" asked the three sea scouts in chorus.
"that's a problem i'll leave you to find out," was the reply. "get hold of the chart and let each of you pin-prick the position you think we are in. the winner gets a coco-nut when we put into port."
this competition kept the crew busy, as they argued amongst themselves and plied parallel rulers and dividers in an attempt to solve the problem.
the tail-end of the fog cleared fairly rapidly. by ten o'clock the horizon was visible, but land was nowhere in view.
"shin aloft and see if you can sight land, hayes," said the scoutmaster.
hayes, lithe and active as a kitten, went up to the cross-trees, grasping the main halliards and using the mast-hoops as foot-holds. arrived at his perch twenty-five feet above the sea, he surveyed the horizon.
"there's land on our port quarter, sir," he reported. "or it may be clouds," he added dubiously.
"then that's the high ground behind the lizard," thought mr. graham. "steer nor'-nor'-east, desmond," he added aloud, "and we'll make plymouth sound in a few hours."
at noon, when the sea scouts went to dinner, land was not in sight—not even from the cross-trees. at three in the afternoon, a faint blur to the nor'-west looked like land. half an hour later the surmise proved to be correct.
it was a rocky coast, broken by lofty hills, but nowhere could mr. graham pick out the triangular-shaped promontory of rame head, the western portal to the approaches of plymouth.
it was land, and that was all to be said about it. somewhere within a few miles was a harbour. the scoutmaster had no intention of having another night at sea, if it could possibly be avoided.
again and again he examined the chart, and consulted the channel pilot, hoping to recognize the coast by means of the illustrations given in the book.
it might be falmouth, or fowey, or perhaps plymouth—that gap in the coastline. he hoped the last, but he was far from feeling confident about it. instinctively, the crew realized that their scoutmaster was out of his reckoning. they treated it as a huge joke.
with a pair of binoculars slung round his neck, desmond went aloft. scanning the coast-line from his post of vantage he at length solved the knotty problem.
"it's the start, sir!" he reported confidently. "and i can see prawle point, where we semaphored about young gregory."
"nonsense!" exclaimed mr. graham sharply.
"it is, sir," declared the patrol leader.
telling desmond to come down, the scoutmaster went aloft. desmond was right. through the powerful binoculars, the white lighthouse buildings on start point and the signal station at prawle point were unmistakably clear.
"that settles it," decided mr. graham. "we'll make for dartmouth."
"dartmouth, sir!" exclaimed desmond. "i thought we were going to pick up bedford and coles at plymouth?"
"out of the question," rejoined the scoutmaster. "we can't beat to wind'ard all that way and retrace our course. we'll wire them to join us at dartmouth."
about twenty minutes later a topsail schooner, close hauled on the port tack, showed evident intention of crossing the spindrift's bows. by the "rule of the road at sea" the latter, running free on the same tack, had to make way for her.
as the ketch passed astern of the schooner, whose name, painted in vivid yellow letters, was the gloria, of fowey, a short, thick-set man, wearing a reefer suit and a bowler-hat, hailed the spindrift.
"ahoy!" he bawled. "can you heave-to, an' take a lad ashore?"
"what's the game, i wonder," remarked mr. graham to his companions. "another sort of gregory stunt?"
apparently the skipper of the gloria considered his request acceded to, for he ran the schooner up into the wind and backed his top-sail. the spindrift also put her helm down, and hove-to about fifty yards from the schooner's starboard quarter.
"anything wrong?" queried the scoutmaster.
"nothin' to speak of," was the reply. "'e's nephew o' mine, an' his old mother do live at dartmouth. us'll pick him up when we loads up at plymouth for littlehampton!"
"right-o," rejoined mr. graham. "we'll put him ashore. we'll send our dinghy."
although the sea was calm, the scoutmaster decided that it was not worth the risk to run the spindrift alongside the schooner. findlay jumped into the dinghy and rowed off, returning with the passenger.
the crew of the spindrift were not particularly impressed at the appearance of the newcomer. he was a freckled, red-haired youth of about eighteen, with a loose lip, and greenish eyes that had a strained, worried look. he waved his hand to the gloria as the schooner filled her top-sails and resumed her course.
the youth was not at all backward at asking questions. he wanted to know all about the spindrift and her crew, where they came from and where they were bound for; why they weren't running the motor, and when did they expect to make dartmouth?
on the other hand, he was very communicative when the sea scouts questioned him, and was as outspoken as the misjudged gregory had been reticent.
choosing the inshore passage inside the skerries, mr. graham suggested that it was time for another meal. findlay went below to light the stove and prepare the food, and, when he announced that all was ready, the crew and the guest went into the cabin, leaving hayes at the helm.
"keep her as she is, hayes," cautioned mr. graham. "i'll be on deck to relieve you long before we open out dartmouth harbour."
the sea scouts were hungry; so was the stranger. there was food in plenty, but, owing to the shortage of fresh water, there was only one cup of cocoa for each person.
suddenly, the passenger made a hurried exit into the cock-pit. the sea scouts looked at each other and grinned. they had seen similar precipitate rushes to the open air before. even mr. graham raised his eyebrows knowingly.
but the next turn of events completely took the wind out of their sails. almost before they realized what was taking place, the cabin doors were slammed to and the sliding hatch drawn over. they heard the rasp of the securing hasp, and the sharp click of the key in the padlock.
"forehatch, quick, you fellows!" exclaimed the scoutmaster, who, seated at the after end of the cabin, could not make his way into the fo'c'sle as quickly as findlay and desmond. both lads attempted simultaneously to squeeze through the sliding door between the cabin and the fo'c'sle. by the time jock had given way to the patrol leader it was too late. there was a scuffling of feet on deck. the forehatch was shut with a bang, and a marline-spike inserted through the securing-bar. the scoutmaster and two of the crew were prisoners.
meanwhile, hayes was still at the helm. not until the young ruffian, whom they had befriended, had secured the forehatch did he grasp the situation. it was useless for him to leave the tiller. without a key, it was impossible for him to open the companion-doors, while to throw back the fore-hatch was out of the question while the red-haired youth was in possession of the deck.
for several minutes the fellow remained for'ard, watching the vibrations of the hatch cover under the the united efforts of the imprisoned crew to burst it open. satisfied that the metal bar defied their united strength, the red-haired youth came aft, ostentatiously fingering a large clasp knife.
"look 'ere, kid!" he exclaimed. "me an' you's goin' for a trip together, friendly-like. s'long's you gives no trouble, well an' good. any tricks, mind you, an' it'll be the worst for yer. got that?"
hayes felt very hot in the throat. he was up against something this time. he racked his brains to know what to say or do. to attempt to try conclusions by force with this tough-looking fellow seemed out of the question. hayes was small but sturdy, but he was no match for the huge-limbed, bull-necked youth who had taken charge of things.
"i don't know what you mean," he said. "we're expecting to fall in with another sea scout motor-boat off dartmouth, so i don't see what you can do."
"we ain't goin' to no dartmouth," declared the youth with a leer. "we're goin' for a run in that there dinghy. your pals will go for a cruise on their own till someone picks 'em up. they can't come to no 'arm. what's that place over there?"
hayes shook his head.
"where's that map of yours i seed you with?" continued the young ruffian. "chuck it over 'ere."
he studied the chart intently, at the same time taking frequent glances at the helmsman to guard against surprise.
"'allsands, that's wot it is," he declared. "now, look 'ere, mate. throw the yot up in the wind and put that there engine into the dinghy. can you work it?"
hayes shook his head again.
"you'll jolly well 'ave to," continued the young pirate. "look slippy."
obediently the sea scout threw the spindrift up into the wind and drew the dinghy alongside. his ready brain was evolving a plan. he meant to make a flying leap into the dinghy and push off, leaving the other fellow in possession of the yacht. it was unlikely that the red-haired youth would jump overboard and swim after the dinghy before hayes had time to ship rowlocks and man the sculls. if he did, a tap over the head with one of the oars would bring him to his senses—or otherwise.
but the sea scout reckoned without his host.
"'ere, 'and me that painter," said the pirate with a grin. "do you go aft an' fix up that motor. look sharp, there."
hayes clamped the outboard motor, and adjusted the controls. as he did so, he noticed that the fellow had not belayed the painter, but was holding it in his hand. if the engine were put suddenly into the reverse, the chances were that he would have to choose between letting go or being dragged overboard.
the engine fired. quick as thought hayes raised the tiller, thereby setting the propeller blade at full astern. as the sea scout had surmised, the painter tautened suddenly, and the next instant it was jerked out of the red-haired youth's hands.
as soon as the dinghy was sufficient distance astern the triumphant hayes put the engine ahead, in order to keep within hailing distance of the fellow in possession of the spindrift, and to deliver an ultimatum.
but hayes's elation was short-lived. he had forgotten the painter trailing in the water. a jerk and the engine stopped dead, with half a dozen turns of rope round the propeller.
shipping the oars, the sea scout paddled within five yards of the yacht.
"you're done for," he exclaimed to the furious youth. "i'm going ashore to summon assistance, if you don't instantly let my chums out of the cabin. the wind's falling light, and the yacht won't get very far before you're caught."
"don't you crow, you young blighter!" was the reply. "i'm not done yet. see that beach? that's where i'm jolly well goin' to run this 'ere yot ashore and trust to luck. if anythink 'appens to your pals it won't be my fault."
hayes realized the import of this sinister threat. even in the light breeze, the spindrift could sail much faster than he could row the dinghy, impeded as the latter was by the drag of the useless propeller. and on the desolate beach a heavy swell was breaking, sufficient to smash the spindrift into firewood in a few minutes. and how would mr. graham and his two chums fare? they looked like being drowned like rats in a trap. and, now he came to think of it, hayes stood a poor chance of getting ashore in the dinghy, unless there were help at hand to save the little cockleshell from the breakers.
