CHAPTER II
A LONG PASSAGE
At the appointed time Scoutmaster Gregory arrived. He was a man of about thirty years of age, of medium height and of slim build. He had cheerful, open features and a jovial manner.
Craddock saw at a glance that he bore not the slightest resemblance to the individual who had spoken to him on the pier.
The Scoutmaster travelled light. His luggage consisted of a small handbag and a haversack.
"Quite a smart little craft," exclaimed Mr. Gregory as they embarked in the dinghy. "Eight tons! Why, you could go almost anywhere in her. Our yacht is only about half that tonnage, and we've been as far as Cornwall and the Norfolk coast. Had lunch yet? No? Neither have I. But we'll get under way and grub as soon as we are clear of the harbour."
This suggestion was met with unqualified approval. The Sea Scouts were not ones to let a meal stand in the way when there was chance to get an extra hour afloat.
Very quickly they decided that Mr. Gregory was a jolly decent sort—one of the highest qualifications that boys can bestow upon "grown-ups." He was quick to express approval and keen to notice any act of smartness on the part of the youthful crew.
He knew his job, too. The way he worked the Puffin out of the narrow harbour, as if he had been used to her for years, proved that. It was also evident to the crew that he knew the approach channel, which was none too well buoyed, for without once referring to the chart or asking for information, he edged the yacht well to wind'ard of the Medlar Shoal and gained the open sea.
"Here, take her!" he exclaimed, signing to Phillips to take over the tiller. "Course Test by South. We'll run as far as Otherport and beat back. How about grub, you fellows?"
The suggestion met with approval, and forthwith they "tucked in," at the same time keeping up a lively flow of chatter.
Presently the conversation turned to the subject of smuggling.
"There's not much of that done nowadays," remarked the deputy Scoutmaster. "The coastguards and custom-house people are far too smart. The game isn't worth the candle, apart from the dishonesty of the whole business. Yet only the other day there was an attempt to run a cargo at Sablesham, where I live. A. vessel from France came into harbour and unloaded part of her cargo. Amongst it were half a dozen cases of boots consigned to one of the leading tradesmen in the town—the mayor, in fact. He knew nothing about them—hadn't ordered them. But he paid freightage and duty and took delivery. When the cases were opened they were found to contain—what?"
"Tobacco," suggested Carline.
"Hardly," replied Mr. Gregory with a smile. "The cases contained boots and shoes, but they were all lefts."
"Not much good to anybody, then," remarked Phillips.
"So the mayor thought," continued Mr. Gregory. "There was nothing to show where the consignment came from, and as the vessel had left they couldn't be put on board again. So after a while they were sold by auction. Some fellow from London, a total stranger, bought them for less than the mayor had paid for freightage."
"Then where did the smuggling come in?" asked the Patrol-leader. "It was all done openly."
"It was," agreed Mr. Gregory. "But the Customs people 'smelt a rat.' Before the stranger from London could remove his purchases one of the Customs officers picked up a shoe and knocked the heel off. It was a hollow heel, and inside was a Swiss watch. The Londoner was one of a gang. He got away, but he must have lost a lot of money, for every one of the odd shoes had a watch hidden inside the heel."
During the whole of the afternoon the Puffin held on her course. It was one of those delightful, whole mainsail breezes, sufficient to keep the lee rail steadily awash.
At five o'clock Otherport was about two miles away on the starboard bow. The wind was falling light, but Mr. Gregory gave no sign that he had noticed the fact, yet the crew knew perfectly well that on the homeward beat they would have a two-knot tide to run against.
Half an hour later the yacht was abreast of the harbour piers. The Deputy Scoutmaster brought his glasses to bear upon the crowded port.
"H'm," he ejaculated. "I don't think we'll put in. It's later than I thought, lads. Ready about—lee-ho."
The head-sail sheets were let fly, mainsheet hauled in and the helm put down. The Puffin went about and settled down on her dead beat to wind'ard.
"She's not making much, sir," remarked Brandon. "We've hardly gained on those two leading marks."
"Foul tide," explained Mr. Gregory. "We'll keep her on this tack and stand out to sea. We won't feel the tide so much farther out."
He glanced at his watch and then looked aloft at the fluttering burgee.
"Wind dropping, too," he observed. "No matter. If there's a flat calm we've the motor to fall back upon. Now, you fellows, how about tea?"
The meal over and the things stowed away the Sea Scouts gathered in the cock-pit and listened to yarns from their entertaining Acting Scoutmaster.
Lower and lower sank the sun, like a ball of fire in a red sky. The sails flapped and finally hung idly in the still air. The sea, unruffled, seemed a blaze of crimson.
"Nine o'clock," announced Mr. Gregory. "We'll be a bit late in getting back to our moorings, I fancy. But the glass is high and steady, and the air's warm. We'd better start that engine, or with the tide against us we'll be losing instead of gaining ground."
By the aid of an electric torch—for the engine-room under the water-tight cockpit was in darkness—Craddock turned on the petrol, adjusted the ignition and flooded the carburettor.
"All ready!" he shouted.
The starting-handle was in the cockpit with a chain drive to the crank-shaft passing through a raised hatch. At the word that all was in order the Patrol-leader gave the handle a vigorous swing.
It was well for him that he had grasped the handle properly and with due regard to "Safety First." That is to say, he kept his thumb underneath the handle and applied the grip by means of his fingers only.
The motor gave a terrific backfire, the handle flying off and narrowly missing Brandon's face. Fortunately it fell inboard.
"Be careful," cautioned Mr. Gregory.
"Never known her to do that before," declared the Patrol-leader. "Retard her still more, Peter."
"Can't," was the reply from below. "Mag's as far back as it will go."
Undaunted, Brandon made another attempt, with precisely the same result.
"Someone's been——" began Craddock, then, reining in his thoughts, he exclaimed, "Timing's slipped, Frank. Hang on a minute, I'll see if I can adjust it."
"Better not," objected the Deputy Scoutmaster. "It's a tricky business in a bad light. There's a faint breeze springing up."
"I can do it, sir," persisted Craddock.
"All right. Carry on, but be careful not to lose any of the parts." Lying on his side with his feet curled up, for the engine-room was cramped and awkwardly shaped, Peter tackled his self-imposed job. Altogether it took him the best part of half an hour.
"We're gaining now," declared Mr. Gregory. "Tide's easing a lot. Keep your eyes skinned, you fellows, and see if you can pick up Oldbury Head Light."
"Engine ought to be all right now, sir," reported Peter. "Shall we start her up and stow canvas?"
"Start her up by all means, but we'll keep the sails set and beat to wind'ard with the motor to help us. One long tack to seaward ought to do the trick."
This time the motor fired easily.
Midnight found the Puffin, on the port tack at least ten miles from shore. A slight haze had completely dimmed the powerful light on Oldbury Head, while the lights of Aberstour were quite invisible.
"Green light on the port bow, sir!" reported Wilson. "She keeps clear of us, doesn't she, sir?"
"Think again," said Mr. Gregory.
Whilst Wilson did think Phillips exclaimed: "I know, sir. She's not a steamer, 'cause there's no masthead light. We are, although we're under sail."
"Quite right," replied Mr Gregory. "At sea a motor vessel rates as a steamer. Wind's dropping again. Get the canvas down, lads; we'll carry on under motor alone."
The work of lowering sails was quickly performed.
"Hello, sir!" exclaimed Brandon. "Signalling?"
"Yes," replied Mr. Gregory. "That vessel has been signalling to us while you were lowering sails. She wants something; we'll run alongside. Mind the dinghy, one of you, if we have to go astern. Fenders out on the starboard side."
The Sea Scouts obeyed with alacrity. A midnight meeting with another craft was something out of the ordinary.
"What does she want, sir?" inquired Wilson and Carline.
"That I can't say," replied Mr. Gregory. "She may be in distress—sprung a leak, short of water, or half a dozen other causes. We'll soon see. Stand by with the reverse gear, Phillips. Ease her down a bit."
The strange vessel was now looming in the starlight. She was a craft of about fifty tons, ketch-rigged with dark sails.
"Ahoy!" shouted a deep voice. "What craft is that?"
"Yacht Puffin, of Aberstour," replied the Patrol-leader.
"Can you take letters ashore for us?" continued the man. "We're three days out from Lowestoft and are bound for Falmouth. No wind and too far to send our boat ashore," he added in support of his request.
"Righto!" shouted Mr. Gregory. "We'll run alongside."
In a few minutes the Puffin was made fast to the stranger's lee quarter, and a small brown paper parcel and about half-a-dozen letters were handed to Mr. Gregory.
"That's all, sir, and thank you," said the skipper of the big yacht. "And if we owe you anything——"
"Not at all," replied Mr. Gregory. "We're Sea Scouts and only too glad to do Good Turns. Let go, please! Touch ahead, Phillips."