"Nothing very serious, I hope," replied the Scoutmaster. "We've been driven on the edge of the mud by the strong east wind—it's blowing half a gale—and the tide has fallen. Consequently we're high and dry, and heeling rather badly."
Above the howling of the wind could be heard the loud roar of the waves breaking over the east pier. During the night the wind had shifted to the south-east, and the sea was surging violently in the Channel.
Donning oilskins, Stratton accompanied Mr. Armitage on deck. The aspect of things in general, and the Rosalie in particular, was not a cheerful one. Against the dark-grey sky showers of white foam showed up distinctly as the waves lashed themselves against the wooden piers. A cold rain added to the discomfort of the morning.
The Rosalie was heeling at a sharp angle, with her rail on the starboard side amidships within a few inches of the slimy mud. In the fairway, only ten yards distant, the ebb tide, swollen by the rain, was surging furiously.
Sheltering in the wheel-house, with his feet hard against the edge of a locker, was Mr. Jackson, disconsolately surveying the inclined plane represented by the listing yacht's wet deck.
"Think she'll lift to the flood tide, Armitage? Frankly, I don't think she will."
"There's a chance she won't," agreed Mr. Armitage. "She's heeled more since I left you. The difficulty is, that we can't run a warp ashore till there's enough water to float the dinghy. By that time——"
He broke off abruptly.
"I'll manage it, sir," volunteered Peter. "I don't suppose the mud's softer than it is at Keyhaven."
"Perhaps there'll be someone ashore who will make a line fast for us," suggested Mr. Jackson.