Ten minutes' steady work sufficed to free the propeller from the tenacious embraces of the fishing-net and rope. Mr. Armitage clambered on board.
"We'll leave those gratings till the tide rises," he said. "Otherwise they'll be filthy. The mud is as dirty as I've seen it anywhere."
"It does whiff a bit, sir," remarked Woodleigh. "Suppose it's the heat of the sun. Do we stay here, or shift back to our old berth?"
"Why not get on, Armitage?" suggested Mr. Jackson.
The Scoutmaster considered.
"There's Dover and Folkestone," he replied. "Neither of them is a very desirable spot for a small yacht. The next port of any consequence is Newhaven. That's a longish run."
He glanced aloft. The sky was clear. What wind there was wafted from the east'ard. The day seemed too fine to waste lying in harbour. The only question was whether the crew could "stick it".
"We're quite all right now, sir," declared the Patrol-leader reading Mr. Armitage's unspoken question. "It will be a jolly sight better out in the Channel than sticking in this mud-hole."
"Don't be disdainful, Peter," said the Scoutmaster. "There may be a time when you'll be grateful for the shelter of a harbour like Ramsgate."
He spoke feelingly, as one who knows the sea and its varying moods. He recalled a mental picture of an M.-L.—staggering, rolling, and lurching, with her decks swept and the windy blast howling through her scanty rigging. And then the indescribable feeling of relief when the staunch little craft won through and passed into the welcome shelter of the pier-heads.