"Phew!" ejaculated Stratton, wiping his heated brow. "Do you know what the time is? A quarter past twelve. I'm turning in."
Before so doing, the Patrol Leader went on deck to have a look round. The night was dark, the sea calm. Almost dead ahead a white glare appeared above the horizon every five seconds. It was from the lighthouse of Cape de la Hogue.
Right astern a powerful beam seemed to travel across the sky, with the same speed and regularity as the light ahead. It was St. Catherine's, making a gesture of farewell from the shores of England, now nearly forty miles astern.
Aloft, the Olivette's two red lights had been replaced by her ordinary white masthead light; her port and starboard lamps were once more burning brightly. Inside the wheel-house, the faint glare from the binnacle shone upon Warkworth's solemn features as the lad kept the boat on her course.
Right in the eyes of the ship stood the motionless figure of Tom Boldrigg. No doubt his thoughts were going back to those far-off times when he performed a similar duty as look-out man upon one of His Majesty's ships, or perhaps he was thinking of the still-distant land where his soldier son slept his long rest.
Right aft, with his feet placed firmly apart and his hands clasped behind his back, stood the Scoutmaster. No doubt he, too, was thinking of how he stood thus under the shadow of the White Ensign, and was recalling vivid yet pleasant pictures of those strenuous days of the Great War.
Seeing Stratton appear on deck, Mr. Armitage walked towards him.
"All correct, sir," reported the Patrol Leader.
"That's good," rejoined Mr. Armitage. "When the motor gave out, I guessed you fellows would be equal to the task of getting it going again. And I was not mistaken."