CHAPTER III
"LET ME OUT, OR——"
An hour later and the leading lights of Aberstour Harbour were sighted at a distance of about four miles.
Brandon was now at the helm. Craddock was on deck for'ard thinking deeply. The rest of the Sea Scouts were either in the cockpit or seated on the cabin-top. Mr. Gregory was below making up his bunk, for he alone of the crew was to sleep on board. The others, according to previous arrangements, were to turn in at the Scouts' Hall, since it was too late for them to disturb their respective parents.
The Puffin was no longer alone. Several of the Aberstour fishing fleet were making for home in order to land their catches in time for market. Most of the boats were fitted with motors, and those which did not possess such a useful means of propulsion were being towed in. Fishermen, like Scouts, are members of a brotherhood in which Good Turns are the order of the day—-and night.
Suddenly a jar shook the Puffin. Peter jumped up and ran aft.
"All right, you fellows!" he exclaimed and dived into the cabin.
"What was that?" inquired Mr. Gregory, still struggling with blankets that obstinately refused to come out of a stiff kit-bag.
"Hit something, sir," replied Craddock; "bit of wreckage. I'll look for'ard."
Lighting a hurricane lamp Peter crawled through the small sliding doorway between the cabin and the fo'c'sle.
"I think she must have strained a plank," he reported breathlessly. "Come and have a look, sir."
Mr. Gregory dropped the kit-bag. Peter stood aside to let him gain the fo'c'sle.
"Can't see or hear any water coming in," said Mr. Gregory, after a brief examination. "It must be the lap of the waves outside, or——"
The thud of the sliding door being hurriedly slammed interrupted his words. He turned to find himself alone. Simultaneously the click of the lock informed him the door was not only shut, but secured. He tried the fore-hatch. Not only was it in place, but it was held down by a strong metal bar padlocked to the deck.
"Brandon, come below a minute!" exclaimed Peter.
The Patrol-leader, alarmed by Craddock's earnest tones, handed the tiller to Carline and gained the cabin.
"I've locked him in," announced Peter.
"What for?" demanded the perplexed Brandon.
"'Cause he's a wrong 'un," was the astonishing reply. "He's not a Scoutmaster. He's a smuggler. That stuff we took off that boat is cocaine. He tried to fool us with a forged letter from Mr. Grant; he jiggered the motor so as to keep us out at sea till midnight, and——"
"Enough of that silly joking, Craddock!" came the voice of the prisoner through the bulkhead. "Open the door at once."
Peter made no reply.
"I couldn't warn you before, Frank," he continued, addressing the Patrol-leader. "If I'm wrong I'll take all responsibility, anyway. There's another thing. While we were stowing canvas he was signalling to the strange vessel. It wasn't Morse. I could have read it if it were, as you know, and their reply wasn't Morse either. It was a secret code."
"For the last time, Craddock," shouted the captive angrily, "open that door."
"Sorry, but you must stay there until we get into port," said the Patrol-leader, answering for Peter.
"I'll give you thirty seconds," continued the Scoutmaster. "If by that time I'm not released I'll blow the lock off. I'm armed, I might warn you."
"Don't add attempted murder to smuggling," responded Brandon. "You can't tackle eight of us even if you do get out."
A tremendous thudding announced that the prisoner was attempting to push the door down with his shoulder.
"'Spose he breaks out?" asked Peter dubiously.
"I'll tackle him," replied the Patrol-leader with easy confidence. "He daren't shoot, even if he has a revolver, and I guess I'll knock him out if it comes to fists. Cut on deck, Peter, and take charge. Warn the others and tell a couple of them to keep an eye on the fore-hatch. Signal the Customs Watch-house and tell them."