Stratton and the other Sea Scouts were equally sanguine. From experience they knew the helplessness of the Olivette when deprived of motor power. There were no sweeps on board, and she carried no canvas. The only means of propulsion would be by towing her from the dinghy, and it would take a terrific amount of energy in that direction to move her through the water at a mile an hour.
Inquiries of the skipper of an eight-ton ketch yacht, abreast of Jack-in-the-Basket, resulted in the information that no motor craft had put into Lymington River since five that morning, so one possible hiding-place was eliminated.
With the sail drawing steadily, the Mudlark slipped rapidly over the tide, keeping close to the fringe of mud-banks on the northern shore of the Solent. Pitt's Deep, open to full view, was a blank. So was the long expanse of shore between it and the entrance to Beaulieu River.
"She might have got in through Bull Run," suggested Hepburn.
"Might," agreed Peter, "but it would take a fellow jolly well acquainted with the place to get the Olivette through. We'll try it and see."
Close hauled on the port tack, the Mudlark skimmed through the narrow channel that affords a short but intricate cut into one of the most picturesque creeks on the south coast. As the boat passed one of the numerous "hards", the crew noticed a coastguardsman running towards them.
"Up centre-board. Down helm."
The boat's forefoot grounded on the shingle, Stratton and Roche jumped ashore to meet the bluejacket.
"You're looking for a motor-boat," announced the coastguard. "I had a telephone message through half an hour ago. She hasn't put into this river, and I've seen nothing answering to her description making to the east'ard."
Then, catching sight of old Boldrigg, he shouted: "Hello, chum. What ship now? Bit of a change from the old Polyandra."