CHAPTER XIV
Bruin
"We know where we are now, at any rate," commented Mr. Armitage. "True we are on the wrong side of the Gunfleet, but the lighthouse enables us to fix our position."
"How did we get so far out of our course?" inquired Mr. Jackson.
"My mistake, I suppose," replied the Scoutmaster. "I must have underrated the strength of the young flood, and it set us too far to the west'ard. I can see the N.E. Gunfleet now. Keep that buoy on your starboard hand, Hepburn. Take a compass-bearing in case the mist increases again."
Meanwhile Peter Stratton, having completed his toilet, was meditatively contemplating the pup for which he had risked his life. The little animal, having had a good feed of bread soaked in condensed milk, was sitting up and looking, with his head turned slightly on one side, at his rescuer.
"You are a funny pup," declared the Patrol-leader.
The pup admitted the impeachment by giving a series of short, sharp barks and wagging his stumpy tail.
He was about two months old. His coat was black with the exception of a tuft of white hair on his chin and a white patch on his chest. His hair was fairly long and silky, his nose long and straight, his paws broad. When he walked he moved with a bear-like gait.
"What sort of animal is he, sir?" asked Peter.
Mr. Armitage refused to accept responsibility.
"Ask Mr. Jackson," he suggested.
"Not much use asking me," said the Oxford Scoutmaster when appealed to. "Mongrel, I should think, with a strain of sheep-dog about him. Wonder how he got on the sands?"
"We'll try and find out," replied Mr. Armitage. "We'll semaphore the Gunfleet Lighthouse and make inquiries. It will give our fellows a chance to test their signalling knowledge."
"Bit out of our way, isn't it?" inquired Mr. Jackson, after consulting the chart.
"Yes," admitted the Scoutmaster, "it is. But we'll have a better opportunity of setting a course across the East Swin and over the Sunk. There'll be plenty of water for us over the latter sand-bank. Get the code-book, Peter, and stand by with the ensign and code-pennant."
By this time the Rosalie had rounded the buoy marking the seaward extremity of the Gunfleet Sands, and was running down past the south-eastern side towards the pile-lighthouse.
"Up with the ensign!" ordered the Scoutmaster.
It was not long before the Red Ensign, with the red and white stripped code flag under it, was observed by the lighthouse, and an answering pennant fluttered from the latter's flagstaff.
"Hoist VOX," continued Mr. Armitage. "That means," he added in explanation, "I am going to semaphore to you'. Now, Woodleigh, stand by with the hand-flags—they're ready."
"Found a dog on the sands; is it yours?" signalled Woodleigh.
"No," was the reply. "We saw it thrown overboard from a bawley two hours ago. Couldn't get to it."
"Thank you," replied the Sea Scout signaller. "Do you know name or number of bawley?"
"No," was the brief answer. "No name or number visible."
The Rosalie hauled down her bunting, and, starboarding helm, shaped a course for the still-distant Kentish shore.
Those of the crew not on duty were discussing the mystery of the pup, and advancing wondrous theories as to how the little animal came to be hove overboard.
Had it incurred the wrath of the short-tempered skipper of the fishing-boat, or had the cook taken summary vengeance upon the little animal? Or had it fallen overboard unobserved by any of the crew?
"We'll make further inquiries later," decided Mr. Armitage. "I don't fancy, however, that he will be claimed, especially if someone threw him overboard deliberately. I suppose you want him, Peter?"
"I'd like to have him, sir—awfully much," replied the Patrol-leader. "But we all had a hand at rescuing him. Couldn't he belong to the Troop?"
"Right-o! That's the sort!" exclaimed Woodleigh and Hepburn.
"If you are agreeable," assented the Scoutmaster, genuinely pleased at Stratton's unselfishness, "we'll adopt him as a mascot. Carried unanimously! The next item on the programme is what's his name to be?"
Half a dozen names were suggested, discussed and rejected.
"He's like a young bear," remarked Peter. "Why not call him Bruin?"
"Very suitable, Peter," said the Scoutmaster approvingly. "We'll have to train him not to gnaw ropes and tear canvas gear. He must live up to his reputation as a Sea Scout's mascot."
"I'll make a collar for him," declared Hepburn. "I've a spare belt I can cut down, and there are some strips of brass in the engine-room. I'll cut his name and address on a piece and rivet it to his collar."
"Go slow, Alan," cautioned Mr. Armitage. "Bruin isn't anything like full grown yet. If you make a collar to fit he'll outgrow it in a few months."
"I wouldn't have a flat collar, if I were you," suggested Mr. Jackson. "It will spoil the dog's fur. Why not a round one—round in section, I mean—and a brass disk attached to it?"
The lads readily fell in with the idea, and Hepburn and Flemming went below to put the work in hand, while Peter, recklessly breaking his comb in two, proceeded to tease out Bruin's tangled and matted coat.
Meanwhile Mr. Armitage had returned to the wheel-house and was busy with the chart and compass. Woodleigh at the wheel was steering faultlessly. The Rosalie was now half-way across Barrow Deep and approaching the shoal water over the Sunk Sand. Already the Gunfleet Lighthouse had faded in the mist. Not a buoy nor a vessel was visible. The sands, hidden by the rising tide, gave no sign of their presence. Optically the yacht was in the midst of a vast sea, but a deviation from the correct course would speedily pile her upon one of the submerged dangers that infest the Thames estuary.
"Lightship ahead, sir," reported Woodleigh.
"That's Black Deep," replied the Scoutmaster. "We're all right, so far. Now port helm a point. That ought to take us through Fisherman's Gat."
A few minutes later the hitherto tranquil surface of the water was ruffled with cats' paws. A light breeze from the nor'west'ard was springing up.
"All hands on deck!" shouted the Scoutmaster. "All hands make sail."
Pell-mell the Sea Scouts tumbled on deck. They, too, welcomed the breeze. In a very short space of time canvas was hoisted and sheets trimmed. The Rosalie, heeling to the quartering wind, increased her speed a good two knots.
With the springing up of the breeze the mist disappeared. No longer was the horizon unbroken. Away on the starboard hand a constant stream of shipping was passing up and down the Edinburgh Channel. Ahead lay the Tongue Lightship, making the junction of two of the principal approaches to the Thames. Beyond, and presenting a low indistinct line that could hardly be distinguished from a bank of clouds, lay the shores of Kent, or, to be more precise, the Isle of Thanet.
"Keep her on the lightship, Alan," cautioned Mr. Armitage, as he noticed the boat's head swing a good three points off her course.
"I'm trying to, sir," replied Hepburn, who was now "taking his trick", "but she will fly round. I've got the helm hard-a-starboard now."
Before the Scoutmaster could get to the wheel-house Roche came on deck.
"Starboard engine's konked," he reported. "I can't quite find out what's wrong. Choked jet or something in the carburettor, sir, I think."
"Throttle down your port engine and see if that makes her easier on her helm," said Mr. Armitage.
Even running at slow speed on one engine failed to cure the tendency of the Rosalie to run up into the wind. With her helm hard over she "gripped" badly. It was a case of either having to stop the port engine or else stow canvas.
While the Scoutmaster was rapidly deliberating as to the best course to pursue, a heavy and decidedly uncanny jar shook the vessel. The revolutions of the port propeller sensibly decreased, and finally the motor refused duty. Dependent solely upon her canvas, the Rosalie slowed down to a bare two knots.
At the first sign of anything going wrong Roche dived below. Flemming was already in the motor-room, engaged in the task of taking down the carburettor, until the giving out of the port engine called for immediate attention.
"What is it?" asked Roche. "Declutch, and start her up again."
The motor fired easily, but the moment Flemming engaged the clutch, it stopped.
"Try again, and put her in the reverse," suggested Dick.
Flemming did so. The shaft made perhaps half a dozen revolutions, and then the motor stopped with a disconcerting thud.
"Something round our propeller; that's what it is," declared Roche. "I'll see Mr. Armitage."
The Scoutmaster went aft and leant over the taff-rail. Trailing astern a few feet beneath the surface were the remains of a length of tarred fishing-net. A few fathoms of it were wound round and round the shaft as tight as a flexible wire rope.
"It's unfortunate, but it can't be helped," said Mr. Armitage. "We'll have to carry on under sail until you can get the starboard engine running, Dick. Found out what's wrong with it?"
"Flemming is taking the carburettor down, sir," replied Roche. "I'll give him a hand. It will be a twenty minutes' job at the least."
During the time repairs were being effected, the Rosalie made slow progress. She was under-canvassed, and, owing to her light draught, made leeway like a crab.
The while Roche and Flemming toiled in the hot engine-room, taking down pipes, cleaning gauzes and clearing jets. They also removed the sparking-plugs, washed them in petrol, and rubbed the points with emery cloth.
Almost to a second on the expiration of the twenty minutes the starboard motor was restarted, and upon the clutch being engaged in the ahead position the Rosalie increased her speed to six knots.
"That's better," ejaculated the Scoutmaster fervently. "We stand a chance of getting into Dover before dark after all. We'll have to lie aground to get that propeller cleared. That's six or seven hours' delay."
"Rough luck, sir," commented Hepburn. "Wonder who our Jonah is?"
"Bruin, more than likely," replied Warkworth. "That's why he was slung overboard."