Flemming made a wry face.
"It's too much of a good thing," he protested. "I've never, never been in a basin before, and this one's quite enough. Doesn't it whiff?"
"It does," admitted Peter. "Now you come to mention it, there is an odour of sorts."
"And those little bounders the French ragamuffins," continued Eric. "The stuff lying on the decks is only a small part of what they threw. I cleared up three times before the Cherbourg Scouts came upon the scene and chased them off. Hello, what's this coming?"
The lock gates were open and a large tramp steamer was being warped into the Bassin-à-Flot. From where the Olivette lay, the steamer's stern was masked by the rise of her deckhouse and bridge, but the ensign was just visible—a dirty, wind-frayed, coal-grimed piece of red bunting with a Union Jack in the upper quarter next the staff.
That nondescript piece of bunting meant something real to the British Sea Scouts. Even though they had not long left their native shores they were already fully aware that they were strangers in a foreign land, but here was a bit of England—technically British soil although afloat—and the sight of it was cheering.
The harbourmaster, purple with incoherent shouting, hurried along the quay-side, waving his arms and pointing frenziedly at the on-coming tramp.
"What does he want?" exclaimed Hepburn.
"I rather fancy he wants us to shift," remarked Peter.
The Patrol Leader's surmise was confirmed by a voice hailing from the tramp's bridge.