CHAPTER IV
THE MIS-SPELT WORD
It was half-past two in the morning when the Puffin glided in between the pierheads. Craddock made no attempt to steer for the moorings. He ran the boat alongside the West Pier, the tide being almost full.
There on the jetty was Scoutmaster Grant, together with half-a-dozen Customs Officers and a couple of policemen.
"You got my telegram, sir?" said Peter.
"Rather," replied Mr. Grant. "It puzzled me. I know no one of the name of Gregory."
"You will soon, sir," was the rejoinder. "We've got him safely locked up in the fo'c'sle."
Soon the little Puffin was packed. Before attempting to open the fo'c'sle hatch the Customs Officers took possession of the letters and parcel received from the mysterious yacht. There, sure enough, was sufficient evidence—pure cocaine worth at least a couple of thousand pounds.
Then the fore-hatch was uncovered.
"Come on, Mr. Gregory," exclaimed one of the Customs officials coaxingly. "Let's have a look at you."
Gregory came out as tamely as a lamb. He was wise enough to recognise the futility of resistance.
In a trice he was handcuffed. A deft search revealed no signs of a firearm, nor did a subsequent examination of the fo'c'sle lead to the discovery of a pistol.
"I must ask you two lads to come with me to the station-as a mere matter of form," said the police-sergeant, addressing Brandon and Craddock.
"I'll come with you," added Mr. Grant. "You others turn in as soon as you can."
* * * *
Surrounded by his captors, the prisoner was escorted along the almost deserted High Street, Mr. Grant and the two Sea Scouts following at a distance. A few fishermen and market porters formed the sightseeing part of the procession.
About a couple of hundred yards up the street was a closed-in motor with the headlights switched on, and the engine softly "ticking over."
Suddenly the prisoner gave a shrill whistle.
The car bounded forward, turned abruptly and fled to the accompaniment of loud blasts on the policeman's whistle.
Then the car disappeared round a corner. A second or two later came the sound of an appalling crash.
"Smash!" exclaimed Mr. Grant. "Run, you fellows."
The Scoutmaster and the two Sea Scouts broke into a run. As they turned the corner they saw that the car had crashed end-on into a stationary lorry and was already well ablaze.
Lying inertly on the pavement with his head touching the base of a lamp-post was the luckless driver of the car, stunned and considerably cut about the head by the broken glass of the windscreen.
Deftly the Sea Scouts rendered First Aid, then, detaching the tailboard of the lorry, they placed the injured man upon it and carried him to the hospital, which was only about a hundred yards from the scene of the accident.
Having furnished the police inspector with the required information they accompanied Mr. Grant back to the harbour.
Day was breaking by the time the now weary-eyed but excited lads had completed their task of mooring up their boat, and at the Scoutmaster's invitation they went back to his house for a very early breakfast.
"That fellow who got smashed up," said Peter during the course of the meal, "was the one who spoke to me while I was fishing on the pier yesterday—or, rather, the day before yesterday."
"Then that was what aroused your suspicions," remarked Mr. Grant.
Craddock shook his head.
"No, sir," he replied. "I never connected the two until an hour ago. He pumped me properly, though. Asked particulars about you and all that. I can see it now."
"Then what did?" persisted Mr. Grant.
"The letter, sir, that was supposed to have been written by you."
"Oh, and how's that?"
"Do you remember about a week ago, sir, when we wrote off about a new accommodation-ladder for the Puffin? I spelt 'accommodation' with one 'm' and you told me about it. Well, in that forged letter the same word occurred and it had only one 'm.' That was enough to start on. So I telegraphed to you. And then I just kept my eyes open——"
"As a Sea Scout should," added Mr. Grant.
"But I can't much longer, sir," rejoined Peter with another yawn.