"In that case I ask your pardon," replied the coastguard, whose badges proclaimed him to be a chief petty officer. "I'm in charge, sir. This station is partly closed down since the war. I've only a few Boy Scouts to give you a hand—an' smart, plucky youngsters they are, too."
"Any special constables in the village?"
"Not one, sir; in fact, there ain't what one might call an able-bodied man in the place, barring this Pattercough. Tribunal exempted him 'evings only knows what for."
"Then turn out the Scouts," said Peter. "They'll come in jolly useful. There's no time to be lost."
Quickly half a dozen of the lads were on the spot, falling in at the word of command from the patrol leader. In a few words Barcroft explained the situation, enjoining silence until the petty officer gave the word for action.
"I'll just telephone through to Tongby and let our chaps know," said the coastguard.
In orderly formation the party set off to the place where the pedlar had left his cart. At "Scouts' Pace"—alternately walking and running—the distance was quickly covered. Butterfly and the load were still in sombre isolation. "He made off in that direction," whispered Peter.
"To Black Ghyll Bay then," replied the petty officer. "Artful bounder! He knew when our patrols pass, and chose his time."
With redoubled caution the party set off in single file, the sailor leading the way and Peter following up at the rear of the Scouts. Not a sound betrayed their presence—it was mainly owing to the fact that they all wore well-used foot gear.
Presently Peter found himself on the point of cannoning into the back of the Scout just ahead of him. The party had halted. With out the slightest confusion they concealed themselves behind a row of bushes that grew almost on the edge of the cliff. The petty officer raised one hand and pointed.