Rusty Rivett showed no enthusiasm over the intelligence. He wanted the rescue of the Olivette to be a Scout "stunt", and he rather resented the coastguards butting in. That meant complications.
"Cheerio, my hearty!" exclaimed one of the "Bobbies", as the skiff-dinghy ranged alongside. "We'll relieve you. Jim, put these Scouts ashore in our boat."
Rusty got his back up. He belied his nickname, for there was precious little oxydization of grey matter about him.
"Thanks," he replied. "We're staying on board."
"You'll be sea-sick for a dead cert," said the coastguard insinuatingly. "There's a bit of a lop on. Best go ashore afore you musters your bag."
"I beg your pardon," rejoined Rusty politely, "I haven't a bag to muster. There's a sack on board, but that's going to be handed over to the Weymouth police."
The man began to grin at the first part of the Patrol Leader's reply, but towards the end he looked decidedly glum. Unless he could persuade the Scouts to leave the vessel, he and his mate were "out of it" as far as salvage was concerned. Rusty knew that. He was determined to do the Milford Sea Scouts a good turn, which included a saving of money that otherwise would have to be paid to the Receiver of Wrecks.
"You weren't born yesterday, I see," observed the coastguard caustically.
"No," replied the Patrol Leader sweetly. "In 1906. But that's neither here nor there, is it?"
"Are you staying on board all night?" inquired the man. "If so, like as not this 'ere boat'll drag and come up on the beach. You'd better——"