CHAPTER I
THE DEPUTY SCOUTMASTER
"Any luck?"
Sea Scout Peter Craddock had heard that question many times before. It seemed to be a stock phrase with the numerous trippers at Aberstour whenever they attempted to open a conversation with any of the amateur fishermen on the pier-head.
Peter finished the task on which he was engaged—placing a plump and slippery ragworm upon a sharp, brand-new hook—before replying.
Turning his head, he saw that his questioner was a young, rather prepossessing man, somewhere in the vicinity of twenty-five years of age.
In one hand he held a folding kodak, in the other a towel and bathing costume.
"Not yet," replied the Sea Scout. "I'm a bit too early. Tide's still ebbing, though it's close on low water."
"Rummy little beasts," commented the stranger, as he looked at the wriggling worms "I shouldn't care to handle them."
"You'd soon get used to that," declared Peter, "'specially if they were put in sand—takes the slimy sensation off, you know."
"How do you get them?—buy them from the boatmen?"
"Some people do," observed the Sea Scout. "We don't. We dig for them when the tide's out."
"Really?" rejoined the stranger; then, dropping the subject, he pointed to a topsail schooner brought up outside the bar.
"What's she flying that flag for?" he asked.
"That's her ensign."
"I thought an ensign was always flown from the back end of a ship."
"The stern," corrected Peter. "Oh, no, not always. She's flying her ensign at the foremast head. Shows she's come foreign."
"Come foreign," repeated the other. "What does that mean?"
"She's just arrived from a foreign part," explained the Sea Scout with that touch of superiority in his tone which a seaman frequently adopts when enlightening mere landlubbers. "She's bound to keep that ensign flying until the Customs people give her clearance. They're putting off to her now."
A dinghy, manned by a couple of bronzed individuals in pilot jackets and peaked caps swept past the pierhead. The one in the stern sheets gave a friendly salutation to the Sea Scout. Peter waved back a reply.
"Friends of yours, eh?" continued the persistent questioner.
"Sort of," admitted Craddock. "Hello! My bait's gone again. The crabs are busy. I don't fish off the pierhead as a rule, but some of our fellows have gone away in the dinghy. That's our yacht over there."
He pointed to a cutter of about eight tons sitting with only a slight list on the mud.
"How jolly!" exclaimed the stranger. "Do you Scouts sail her yourselves?"
Peter shook his head.
"No, that's the worst of it," he replied. "We aren't allowed to without our Scoutmaster on board. We can use the dinghy, though."
"Do the Customs people ever search your yacht?" was the next question.
"No, why should they?" replied Peter. "We aren't smugglers, and we've never taken her across Channel. We may some day. 'Sides, the Customs officers know all about us."
"'Fraid I'm not a good sailor," admitted the stranger. "I'd be seasick. Well, I must be moving. Hope you'll have good luck when the tide makes. Good morning."
"Good morning," replied Craddock.
The young man took half a dozen steps. Then he turned abruptly and came back.
"By the bye," he said, "as you are a native of this place perhaps you can give me the address of a Mr. Grant—Theodore Grant."
"I should just think I could!" exclaimed Peter. "He's our Scoutmaster. He lives at Seamore Villa, just beyond the Martello Tower. But it's no use your calling. He won't be in."
"Won't be in?—that's a pity."
"'Cause he's away for three or four days," explained the Sea Scout. "And if he weren't, you wouldn't find him at home, 'cause he'd be out sailing with us," he added.
"Grant's away for a few days, you say? Do you happen to know where he's staying?"
"At Sablesham."
"Why, that's only twenty miles away," rejoined the stranger, his face brightening. "I can easily slip over there on my motorbike. Whereabouts in Sablesham is he staying, do you know?"
Yes, Peter did know, and forthwith gave the required information.
Then, with another "Good morning!" the bright young man walked briskly off and disappeared from view round the corner of the High Street.
At eight o'clock on the following morning the Scouts assembled at the Sea Scouts Hall, as their clubroom was called.
The daily routine consisted of hoisting the ensign, cleaning out the hall, scrubbing and smartening up the dinghy and her gear, and finally airing sails and "turning over" the motor of the Puffin, the Aberstour Sea Scouts' eight-ton auxiliary cutter.
Then, in ordinary circumstances, the patrol on duty went away on a short cruise, while the rest of the Sea Scouts amused themselves as best they could, since it was out of the question to stow twenty-four growing lads on an eight-tonner except in relays.
But this was no ordinary circumstance. The Scoutmaster, Mr. Grant, had been called away on urgent business, and without him, or another responsible "grown-up," the Sea Scouts were not allowed to put to sea.
It was disappointing, but being Scouts they kept smiling.
"I had a letter from Mr. Grant this morning," announced Frank Brandon, Patrol-leader of the Otters, a hefty, sun-burned youth of eighteen, who in addition to being an excellent swimmer was a boxer of no mean prowess. "He says he cannot possibly get back before next Tuesday."
This time the Otters did not smile. Instead of being deprived of their trip in the Puffin until Friday, it meant that their turn would not come round again before half of the next week had passed.
"But," continued the Patrol-leader, "that's only half the news. Cheer up!"
"Well, what is it?" inquired Phillips.
Brandon tapped the pocket of his jersey.
"It'll keep," he replied tantalisingly. "Now then, boys, look alive and get the job done! We want the place to look extra smart to-day."
This was a hint that there was something in the wind. For the next half-hour the Sea Scouts—Patrol-leader included—worked like galley-slaves.
When they had done, Brandon pinned the Scoutmaster's letter to the notice-board. The Sea Scouts crowded round eagerly.
This is what they read:—
The Croft,
Sablesham,
17th December.
DEAR LADS,
I am sorry, but all efforts on my part to get back on Friday have been futile. The business upon which I am engaged cannot be settled before Tuesday at the earliest.
However, as I know you want to get afloat, a friend of mine, Mr. George Gregory, has kindly promised to take my place. He is Scoutmaster of the 2nd Sablesham Troop. I hope you'll be able to show him that the Aberstour Sea Scouts are at least as smart as his.
Mr. Gregory is arriving by the 1.15 train. He tells me that he will be quite content with the accomodation on board the Puffin, and will sleep on board while he is at Aberstour.
Cheerio,
Yours Sea Scoutingly,
THEO. GRANT.
"Wonder what he'll be like?" asked Hopcroft.
"Not a patch on our Scoutmaster," declared Carline loyally. "But we'll do all we can to help him."
"I shouldn't be surprised——" began Peter Craddock.
"Surprised what?" inquired Patrol-leader Brandon.
"Nothing much, Frank," replied Peter. "A fellow spoke to me on the pier yesterday. He wanted to see Mr. Grant. Perhaps he was Mr. Gregory."
"If so, you'll soon be able to make sure," rejoined the Patrol-leader. "Now, let's get on board and get the Puffin ready."
This took some time. The yacht had to be provisioned for the day's cruise, or rather with enough water and food for three days, this being one of Mr. Grant's precautions in the event of the yacht encountering bad weather that prevented her from returning to her home port. The petrol tank had to be filled, running gear overhauled, and sails hoisted. By this time it was nearly twelve o'clock.