CHAPTER XI
THE MYSTERIOUS VISITOR
"One of you fellows must remain on board as ship-keeper," decided Scoutmaster Grant. "The unlucky one must be elected amongst yourselves, so get busy, lads."
The Puffin lay alongside the quay at Sablesham, moored fore and aft by ropes ashore and with her anchor in the stream to prevent her chafing against the piles.
The Sea Scouts were about to spend the evening ashore. An invitation had been received from the Lydiard Scouts to attend a camp-fire concert at a camp on the side of Blackbird Beacon, a lofty, grass-covered chalk down about five miles from Sablesham Harbour.
Having told his crew to choose amongst themselves who should be ship-keeper, Mr. Grant went ashore to visit the harbour master. Twenty minutes later he returned to find the debatable point still undecided. Everyone wanted to go, and each Sea Scout had half a dozen reasons, good, bad, or indifferent, why he should not be left behind. There was no unseemly wrangle or display of bad temper; they were simply arguing the matter out.
"What! Not settled yet?" exclaimed Mr. Grant.
"We wish you'd decide, sir," said Carline.
"Unanimous on that?" asked the Scoutmaster.
"Yes, sir," was the reply in chorus.
"Well, I'm not going to," was Mr. Grant's somewhat disconcerting response, but there was a sly twinkle in his eyes that told the crew pretty plainly that their Scoutmaster would speedily solve the perplexing problem.
"You're going to choose Scout fashion. Brandon, bring me a piece of old rope out of the junk locker, please."
The Patrol-leader brought the required article. Deliberately Mr. Grant unlaid a portion of the rope and cut off seven pieces each about three inches in length, and one piece an inch shorter.
"Now," he continued. "Face outward and don't look this way until I tell you."
Obediently the crew gazed stolidly at a fishing smack moored alongside the opposite quay, notwithstanding a strong inclination to know what was going on behind their backs.
"Now, this way!"
The Sea Scouts faced about. On the coaming of the cockpit lay the signal code-book, while from beneath the latter projected eight pieces of rope each showing an equal length.
"The fellow who draws the short piece is to be ship-keeper," explained Mr. Grant. "Now, Symington, Talbot, Hopcroft, Carline, Phillips, Wilson."
As each lad's name was called he drew out one of the rope-yarns. Some chose theirs boldly, others hesitated, making several feints before taking the plunge, especially as the number of rope-yarns diminished without the short end coming to light.
"Now, Craddock."
Peter Craddock gave a swift glance at his comrade in the final—Patrol-leader Brandon.
"Take the one on your left," suggested Brandon.
But Peter chose the other; it was the short end.
"Hard lines, partner!" exclaimed Brandon.
True to his principles Peter Craddock kept smiling, though it was with envious eyes that he saw his chums "smartening-up" for their visit to the Lydiard Scouts' camp.
"Cheerio, Peter," was Scoutmaster Grant's parting greeting. "We'll be back about ten—half-past ten at the latest. Don't forget the riding-lamp."
The Sea Scouts jumped ashore. Craddock watched them along the quay and over the swing-bridge until they disappeared round the corner of the Custom House. Then he settled down to his seven hours' "trick."
There was not much to be done or to be seen. Sablesham Harbour was almost deserted. The fishing fleet, with a few exceptions, was out. A couple of grimy colliers were discharging their cargo at the gasworks. A French smack with her hold full of onions had just arrived.
All these vessels lay along the east quay. The west quay was untenanted with the exception of the Puffin, which lay about a hundred yards inside the curved arm of the pier.
After a while Craddock retired to the cabin, and was soon deeply engrossed in The Scout. Tea was rather a sorry meal eaten in solitude, but Peter, methodical in most matters, washed up and stowed the things away.
At six o'clock, being half flood, he took in the slack of the ropes and shifted the dinghy from alongside to under the bowsprit, so as to be out of the way in case a clumsily-managed boat coming in should give her a nasty "nip." This done he was free to continue reading until sunset.
Presently he became aware of the fact that the light was fading. A heavy patter on the coach-roof of the cabin informed him without any doubt about the matter that it was raining.
Donning his oilskin Craddock went on deck to make sure that there was nothing left about that might get spoilt. A glance at the sky showed that the rain had set in for the night, although there was no wind at all. So heavy was the downpour that the houses beyond the opposite quay were almost invisible.
"May as well light the riding lamp while I'm about it," thought the lad. "It's almost sunset."
The lamp, cleaned and well-trimmed, was quickly lighted and hoisted on the fore-stay. Then going below and pulling over the sliding-hatch, Peter prepared to make the best of things till his comrades returned.
He rather felt like "shaking hands with himself" at the thought that he hadn't to tramp a good five miles in the pouring rain. After all there were worse places than a cosy and well-lighted cabin on board a yacht snugly moored in a sheltered harbour.
"Let me see," he continued, "high water's at 8.15. No need to tend the warps before midnight. I'll put the kettle on the stove about nine, so that the other fellows can have something hot when they return."
Deep in his favourite paper, Peter was unconscious of the flight of time until the rippling of water against the yacht's bows warned him that the tide had changed and was beginning to ebb hard. A glance at the clock showed that it was nine o'clock.
"Below there!"
Craddock sat up with a start. Someone was hailing from the quayside. Who could be wanting to communicate with the yacht on such a horribly dirty night?
"Below there!" shouted the voice again.
Pushing back the sliding hatch Peter thrust head and shoulders out into the rain and darkness. Blinded by the sudden change from the well-lighted cabin, he could see nothing.
"Hello!" he replied. "What is it?"
"Is this the Puffin?" inquired the insistent voice. "Is Mr. Grant on board?"
"No, sir," replied Craddock.
"When will he return?"
"Very soon," was the non-committal answer.
"In that case I'll come on board and wait," rejoined the stranger.
There was a heavy thud, as a pair of thick-soled boots landed on the deck, and a burly figure, just visible in the dancing rays of the swinging riding-light, made straight for the companion hatchway.
Peter went down the steps and stood aside. The uninvited guest's boots clattered on the brass treads, his body enveloped in a leather motoring coat, from which the rain water ran in rivulets. He appeared to take up the whole width of the companion. Then, gaining the cabin, the stranger turned. "Beastly horrible night, isn't it?" he remarked.
He was a pleasant-faced man of about thirty. To Craddock he appeared to resemble very strongly the confiding stranger who had "pumped" him on Aberstour pier. He might possibly be an elder brother, and if so was one of the gang of cocaine smugglers, the remainder of which was doing "time" in prison.
Doubtless he had had the yacht under observation and, finding that there was only one of the crew on board, was bent upon taking vengeance upon the Sea Scout who had been instrumental in capturing the self-styled Scoutmaster Gregory. Those and a score of similar thoughts flashed across Peter's mind. He decided to act strictly upon the defensive until Mr. Grant returned.
"Beastly horrible night, isn't it?" said the stranger again, as he removed his dripping coat. "Do you mind?"
Peter took the proffered garment and hung it in the cupboard on the starboard side of the companion-ladder. Then he closed the sliding-hatch, leaving the cabin doors open.
"Now we can have a cosy chat until Mr. Grant returns," continued the man, in no way offended by the Sea Scout's silence. "I'm anxious to meet you Sea Scouts, I've heard quite a lot about you. You're a set of plucky fellows."
"Are we?" said Peter cautiously.
"Aren't you?" rejoined the other, calmly seating himself on the settee on the starboard side, and thrusting out his legs. By so doing he had cut off Craddock's only means of getting out of the cabin, since the fore-hatch was closed and secured on the outside. "I suppose you had a hand in that little affair with your bogus Scoutmaster the other day?"
Peter made no reply.
"Modest about your achievement, eh?" laughed the stranger. "Very well, we'll change the subject. This is a fine little craft of yours. I'm a sailing man myself, when I can spare the time. As a matter of fact I was cruising off Aberstour about a week ago. White Gull is the name of my craft. She's about eighty tons."
"Straight-stemmed cutter, isn't she?" inquired Craddock, feeling that he must say something.
"No, spoon bow."
"Square stern?"
"No, counter."
"Oh!" exclaimed Peter involuntarily. The particulars as supplied by the talkative visitor coincided with those of the mysterious craft from which the Puffin had received the consignment of contraband drugs.
At that moment a red light gleamed through the port scuttle. The Puffin lifted to a swell and ground heavily against the piles.
"Steamer coming in," remarked the stranger. "She gave us a bit of a biff with her wash. I hope your warps are sound."
"I'll go on deck and see," said Peter eagerly.
Without waiting to put on his oilskin, Craddock nipped up the ladder. His unwanted companion made no effort to stop him. In fact, he moved his legs aside.
The rain was still descending in sheets. Through the mirk Craddock could distinguish the stern light of a tramp steamer that had just entered the harbour and was making for a berth beyond the swing-bridge.
In vain the Sea Scout looked along the ill-lighted quay in the hope of seeing either Mr. Grant or a policeman or even a friendly fisherman. The idea that had flashed across his mind had taken root. He was firmly convinced that the fellow in the cabin was there for no good purpose.
"I'll lock him in and go ashore for help," he decided, and measured the distance between the yacht's rail and the edge of the quay. By this time the tide had fallen considerably and was ebbing with great force. The coping of the masonry was a good five feet higher that the Puffin's deck.
"Don't want to find myself in the ditch," thought Peter.
Through the slightly-opened skylight he peeped cautiously into the cabin. The stranger was in the act of transferring a revolver from his hip-pocket to the side-pocket of his jacket.
The light of the cabin lamp glinted upon the dull steel of the sinister weapon. That was conclusive proof of the intentions of the fellow.
Very gently Craddock felt for the padlock and key of the companion hatch, which when not in use hung from a hook just behind one of the double doors. With a feeling of elation his fingers closed over the required articles.
The next instant the doors and the sliding-hatch were closed and the padlock slipped through the hasp that secured all three. So neatly was the operation completed that the man in the cabin was unaware of what had taken place. Possibly the thud of the raindrops upon the cabin-top had deadened the sound.
"Don't stop out in the rain, boy!" he shouted.
Chuckling over the success of his plan Peter went for'ard, intending to steady himself by the shrouds as he leapt ashore. Before he could do so there was a loud crack that sounded to him like the report of a pistol.
Simultaneously the quay appeared to recede from the yacht. Already the distance between the two was too great for Craddock to leap. Then it suddenly dawned upon him.
"The yacht's adrift!" gasped Peter.
Absolutely certain that this was part of the stranger's scheme to smash up the Sea Scouts' yacht, Peter clambered into the bows. The part of the grass rope secured to the bits hung limply. The Puffin was swinging out with her bows pointing towards the opposite quay and with the tide boring furiously against her port side.
Kneeling, Peter fumbled for the chain. A distinct rasping sound told him that the anchor was playing false. Instead of holding, it was dragging.
Then came another disconcerting sound—the splintering of wood from right aft. The warp on the port quarter had wrenched the cleat to which it was secured, from its fastenings.
Back swung the yacht head to tide, but the anchor still refused to "bite." Having started to drag it continued to do so. Soon the yacht was abreast of the pier-head and about twenty yards from it. In a few minutes she would be swept by the surging ebb right out into the English Channel.