The motor-boat headed towards the Mudlark, slowed down, and reversed engines.
"Pretty asses we look," soliloquized Peter, "getting those fellows to stop. Jolly sporting of them, though."
"What's amiss?" demanded the officer in command, as he scrambled out of the cockpit. "Joy riding and feeling sorry you came?"
"Not at all, sir," replied Peter, saluting. "We've lost a boat and she's almost exactly the same as yours."
"S'long as she isn't exactly the same I don't worry," replied the flying officer. "Come alongside and tell me all about It."
The Sea Scouts did so.
"All right," continued the officer. "If we spot the Olivette we know what to do. There were about a dozen boats of this class built during the war, and no doubt yours was one of them. We're off to Studland Bay to pick up a derelict flying-boat and are taking her back to Calshot. Throw us your painter. We'll tow you back to Hurst."
"Cast us off opposite Newtown, sir, if you please," said the Patrol Leader. "We want to see if our boat has put in there."
It did not take No. 5 long to arrive at the black buoy marking the entrance to the complicated, five-armed estuary known as Newtown River. Here the Mudlark was cast off; sail was hoisted and with a beam wind the Sea Scouts were quickly within the entrance.
Inquiries at the Coastguard Station were fruitless, so, having practically cleared the little general shop of provisions, the lads reembarked, and with the last of the west-going tide managed to arrive at Keyhaven by six in the evening.