"As soon as the weather moderates," was the reply. "Judging by the present outlook, we might be weatherbound for a week."
"The Olivette will sail in company with you, then," said her owner, "unless my paid hands desert. I rather wish they would, because they are the bosses and I'm a sort of human petty-cash till."
"If they do leave you in the lurch," said Mr. Armitage, "I think we can manage to spare you three hands, enough to work the Olivette round to the Solent. Lunch ready, Woodleigh?"
It was a bounteous repast in spite of the deficiency of plates and dishes, for there had been heavy casualties in the pantry since the Rosalie left Yarmouth. Woodleigh, always a good cook, simply excelled himself, and Mr. Murgatroyd, drawing a comparison between the culinary arrangements on the Rosalie and the Olivette, felt decidedly envious.
At high water the harbour-master came alongside, and, having collected dues, suggested that the Rosalie should shift her berth.
"You'll be all right between those two buoys," he said. "You'll probably ground at low water, but the mud's soft, so you won't heel there."
For the next three days it blew hard. The Sea Scouts endured the forced detention with fortitude, but whenever they landed and walked to the pier-head the aspect of the English Channel rather made them wonder whether it was going to be rough for weeks. As far as the eye could see, there were tumultuous, white-crested waves.
On Saturday morning Stratton saw Mr. Murgatroyd making violent gesticulations from the deck of the Olivette. Promptly the yacht's dinghy put off to find out the reason of the unorthodox semaphoring display. The owner of the Olivette was excited and jubilant.
"They've deserted," he announced. "The scoundrels were paid on Friday night, and this morning they were missing. A waterman probably landed them."
"Perhaps they'll roll up again," suggested Mr. Armitage.