CHAPTER XIX
The Patrol-leader Scores
Sunday dawned fair and bright, with a steady off-shore wind. Three days remained before the time stipulated for the handing over of the Rosalie at Poole expired, and, given reasonable weather, there was no reason why the contract should not be carried out.
At nine o'clock the Rosalie, with the Olivette following sedately in her wake, passed between the pier-heads of Littlehampton Harbour, bound west.
Standing seaward for a mile, in order to clear the shoal patches off that part of the Sussex shore, both boats then ported helm and steered for the as yet invisible Selsea Bill.
All hands, including Bruin, were basking on the deck of the Rosalie; while, glancing astern, they could see the owner and two of the crew of the Olivette perched upon the latter craft's cabin top.
At intervals the Sea Scouts on the two boats would exchange semaphore messages. These were mostly of a frivolous nature, but they served to keep the boys in practice. Mr. Armitage rather prided himself upon the signalling capabilities of his troop. He had taught them to receive messages before being able to send them, which is more than half the battle in learning both Morse and semaphore. He knew from experience that in the majority of cases a learner who is taught to send before being able to receive rarely becomes a smart signalman—and he acted accordingly.
"Keep a sharp look-out, lads," said the Scoutmaster, as the low-lying Selsea Bill appeared in view. "See who'll be the first to spot the Mixon—a tall pile with a barrel on top of it. It should be a point on our starboard bow."
Actuated by the spirit of competition, the Sea Scouts clustered in the wake of the wheel-house scanning the distant shore; but for a considerable time their efforts to locate the important sea-mark were without success.
"Hope the beacon hasn't been washed away," said Mr. Armitage. "Unless we sight it we'll have a difficulty to find our way through the Looe Stream. It's narrow, with submerged rocks on both sides, and generally a nasty tide-rip to complicate matters."
"Fortunately we are not entirely dependent upon sails, nor have we to beat through," remarked Mr. Jackson.
"That's true," agreed Mr. Armitage, "but, in a way, I'm sorry. The introduction of marine motors has practically killed seamanship in yachts. Nowadays when a fellow encounters a foul tide, what does he do? In nine cases out of ten he starts the engine. Come along, lads, haven't you spotted the beacon yet?"
"What's that over there, sir?" asked Flemming, pointing to an indistinct object a good two points off the port bow.
"Why, that's what we're looking for—the Mixon," declared the Scoutmaster. "We're off our course. I expected to find it off our starboard bow. Starboard a bit, Peter. That's it. Keep her at that."
The alteration of helm was promptly noticed by the crew of the Olivette. The motor-boat had been maintaining her station splendidly, the Rosalie having to reduce speed slightly to enable the slower craft to do so.
Passing a hundred yards to the south'ard of the beacon, both boats entered the Looe Stream, a short but somewhat intricate cut for craft making a passage from Spithead to the east'ard. In the actual stream there was very little sea running, although the tide set strongly, but on its western edge there was a regular, clearly-defined wall of tempestuous overfalls.
"We'll get it in a minute or so," declared Mr. Armitage. "Close the fore-hatch and the engine-room skylights, Peter. There's nothing not lashed down on deck, I hope?"
The Rosalie plunged bodily into the turmoil. White-crested waves poured over her bows and surged aft in milky foam, while spray dashed in showers high over the wheel-house. The belt of disturbed water was but a hundred yards or so in width. Beyond, the waves were regular.
Flemming was steering. The rest of the crew, including the two Scoutmasters, looked aft to see how the Olivette was faring. Greatly to their surprise they noticed that she was slowing down and displaying a tendency to fall off into the trough of the sea.
"Hope her motor hasn't given out," exclaimed Mr. Armitage.
"I don't think so, sir," replied Stratton. "There's smoke coming from her exhaust, and the circulating-pump is still working. But, look! What is Hepburn doing?"
Apparently Warkworth was in the wheel-house. Roche had left the engine-room, and with Mr. Murgatroyd was standing by the low stanchion rail on the port side. Alan Hepburn, with one foot on the broad rubbing-strake, and hanging on with one hand to a stanchion, was evidently contemplating a plunge overboard. Already all three were wet through, owing to the spray and the waves that tumbled inboard as the Olivette rolled in the trough.
Suddenly Hepburn leapt. The watchers on the Rosalie saw that he took a coil of rope with him. He struck the water feet foremost, reappearing almost before the splash of the impact had subsided. Then, raising one arm as a signal, he was hauled back by Mr. Murgatroyd and Roche.
"What did he do that for?" asked the perplexed Stratton.
The answer, silent but expressive, came from Alan himself, for as he gained the heaving deck he held up a dank, dishevelled object for the crew of the Rosalie to read, mark, and learn. It was Bruin.
The pup had been left lying asleep in the yacht's cabin. Unobserved, Bruin had made his way on deck and had coiled himself up under the dinghy that, swung inboard, was resting on chocks.
A heavy roll as the Rosalie took it green on the tail of the Looe Stream sent Bruin into the briny, unnoticed by anyone on board.
It was Warkworth at the helm of the Olivette who spotted the pup as it struck out in an unavailing attempt to overhaul the yacht.
Shouting to Roche to stop the engines, and hurriedly informing Hepburn of what had occurred, Warkworth steered as long as the boat carried way, while Alan, awaiting his opportunity, plunged overboard to the rescue.
As soon as the Rosalie and the Olivette entered relatively smooth water, Hepburn, without waiting to shed his saturated garments, stood on top of the wheel-house and held up a pair of hand-flags at the "preparatory".
"Acknowledge," said Mr. Armitage. "It's going to be something caustic, Peter."
It was. The semaphore message was as follows:—
"If Stratton can't look after Bruin better than that he'd better invest in a golliwog."
"Nasty one that, sir," remarked Peter, with a laugh.
The Sea Scouts were now approaching familiar water. Slightly on the port bow could be discerned the lofty downs of the Isle of Wight, while right ahead the three chequered circular forts of Spithead reared themselves out of the sea like inverted buckets.
"We'll carry our tide right through to Keyhaven," observed Mr. Armitage. "It may mean a slight delay before we can get in. To-morrow will be an easy run to Poole."
Not since leaving the Downs did the Rosalie pass so many craft as she did in Spithead and the Solent. In addition to war-ships, tramps, and coasters, there were yachts by the score, from single-handed sloops to large schooners, and motor-launches dashing about in all directions, a fair percentage steered by men whose knowledge of the Rule of the Road was, to say the least, elementary.
Cowes, with its crowded Roads, was passed and left astern, and presently a tall, chimney-like shaft became visible right ahead.
"There's Hurst!" exclaimed Stratton. "I can see the lighthouse. No need to write home to-night."
Approaching the narrow entrance to Keyhaven with caution, the Rosalie crossed the bar with less than nine inches of water under keel. The Olivette, drawing a foot and a half less, had no difficulty in following, and by four o'clock in the afternoon both craft were moored in the sheltered creek, and the Sea Scouts were within a mile or so of their homes.
"We'll have tea and then general leave for all hands," said Mr. Armitage. "You fellows can sleep ashore if you want to, provided you are on board by nine to-morrow."
He glanced in the direction of the Olivette, which was swinging to the young flood at a distance of fifty yards from the Rosalie.
"By Jove!" he exclaimed, and pointed. Stratton, following the direction of the Scoutmaster's outstretched hand, also uttered an ejaculation, for swimming strongly for the Rosalie was Bruin. The Olivette's crew, down below smartening themselves up, were ignorant that the pup had leaped overboard. Bruin, seized by a sudden inspiration after the manner of members of the canine world, had quietly taken to the water in order to rejoin the yacht.
"We'll pull their legs, sir," declared Peter, as he hauled the mascot on deck. "I'll take him below out of the way and then signal to ask them where he is. That'll put the wind up them."
"A better way, I think, will be to invite them all on board to tea," suggested the Scoutmaster. "We'll have to bring them off in the dinghy. Then there'll be some commotion when they can't find Bruin. Hail them, Peter."
At the Patrol-leader's stentorian "Ahoy!" Hepburn's tousled head appeared above the coaming. Alan was evidently in the midst of his toilet.
"Tea's nearly ready," shouted Stratton. "Mr. Armitage wants you all to come on board. We'll send the dinghy."
Within a few minutes Stratton was alongside the Olivette. Her crew boarded the waiting boat, Mr. Murgatroyd beaming with satisfaction at the picturesque surroundings of the sheltered creek that was to be the Olivette's home port.
"Where's Bruin?" inquired Stratton. "You aren't going to leave our mascot all alone, are you, Alan?"
"'Course not," replied Hepburn, although, if the truth be told, Bruin had been overlooked in the bustle of 'snugging down and squaring up'. "Here, Bruin—come along, good dog!"
No Bruin appeared. Hepburn whistled, but without the desired result.
"He's asleep in the after-cabin, I expect," he suggested.
"You're a fine fellow to have charge of a dog," said Peter scornfully. "He ought to appear at once at your whistle."
"Then whistle him for yourself," retorted Alan.
"Not I," rejoined the Patrol-leader. "He's in your care, my festive, until you return him to the Rosalie."
Hepburn whistled yet again. Roche and Warkworth added their quota of noise, but "nothin' doin'".
"He's probably gnawing my boots in the after-cabin," suggested Mr. Murgatroyd; "or, if he has cannibalistic tendencies, perhaps he's going for my dog-skin gloves. Hop aboard, Hepburn, and see what mischief he is doing."
Alan clambered over the side and went below. Chuckling to himself, Stratton heard his fellow Sea Scout coaxing and whistling the invisible mascot. Then Roche joined in the search, until in desperation the twain began to empty the lockers of their varied contents, and search numerous out-of-the-way places that were to be found on even a boat of the Olivette's small displacement.
"Buck up, you fellows!" shouted Peter, as the two Sea Scouts paused through sheer inability to find an unexplored hiding-place. "What are you doing? Giving Bruin a bath?"
Looking very red in the face, Hepburn came out of the fo'c'sle and announced that he couldn't find the pup anywhere.
"Perhaps he's jumped overboard again," suggested Warkworth. "Suicidal tendencies, I imagine. It's the third time—once off the bawley, then overboard from the Rosalie, and now——"
"Shut up!" ejaculated Alan, who, in common with the other Sea Scouts, was genuinely fond of the animal.
"When and where did you last see him?" inquired the Patrol-leader.
Neither Hepburn, Roche, nor Warkworth could say definitely. Mr. Murgatroyd, when appealed to, replied that he had a hazy idea that he'd noticed Bruin on deck while they were mooring.
"It's no use stopping here and hanging on to the slack," declared Stratton severely. "If the dog's lost, arguing about it won't find him. We'll get back to the Rosalie."
Alan Hepburn looked at the Patrol-leader in astonishment. He could not understand why Peter had taken the news so cold-bloodedly, not even attempting to join in the search.
Rather dejectedly the three Sea Scouts forming the temporary crew of the Olivette boarded the Rosalie.
"Tea's ready," announced Mr. Armitage briskly. "All hands below."
The two Scoutmasters, Mr. Murgatroyd, and the Sea Scouts, with the exception of Peter, seated themselves at the table. The Patrol-leader waited until Mr. Armitage had passed the tea-cups round, and then gravely set a dish with a metal cover in front of Hepburn.
"Make yourself useful, Alan," he said. "Serve that out."
Obediently the unsuspecting lad removed the cover. On the dish was a golliwog made of rope-yarn and canvas, with a red bunting tongue and buttons for its eyes.
"What's the joke?" asked the now astonished Alan.
"You sent me a signal, I think," replied Peter calmly. "It concerned Bruin and a golliwog. Bruin has chosen us, so the golliwog goes to you. Here, Bruin, good lad."
The pup appeared from the recesses of a locker. Everyone roared at Alan's expression of amazement, while Hepburn, only too glad to find that Bruin was no longer missing, joined in the laughter.
"You're one up this time, Peter," he said. "Never mind; it was jolly well worth it."