The "old son" looked at his master and solemnly winked one eye.
"I mean it, Bruin," continued Stratton. Bruin shut one eye again, and went outside to think things over.
Early next morning the Sea Scouts reassembled at Keyhaven. First high-water—for there are double tides on this part of the coast—was at 10.15, but all preparations had to be completed well before that time.
As the lads approached the Olivette the Patrol Leader came to a sudden stop. He wasn't smiling this time. In fact his jaw dropped appreciably. The boat's side looked as if it had developed a marine form of scarlet fever. It was simply peeling all over. The smooth coat of grey, over the application of which Stratton had spent so much time and labour, was little better than an expanse of blistering and flaking paint.
"What's happened, Peter?" asked Hepburn. "Has someone been fooling about in the night?"
"Goodness knows," replied the Patrol Leader. "Frost might account for it but we don't get frosts in July. The paint hasn't taken. We'll have to scrape it all off. And Mr. Armitage is due back to-morrow."
While the Sea Scouts were still contemplating the unaccountable misfortune, an old man approached. They knew him very well. His name was Boldrigg, and he was a pensioned naval seaman, who, having served as a coastguard, had settled down at Keyhaven. He was a widower, and had lost both his sons in the War—one a seaman gunner, in the Jutland Battle, and the other a corporal in a line regiment, "somewhere in France".
"Ahoy, there!" shouted the old man. "Tied up in knots about something I'll warrant. What's adrift?"
Peter pointed to the oyster-shell markings and blisters.
"Fresh on yesterday, Mr. Boldrigg," he declared, "and look at it now. Paint's rotten."