"Good enough," declared Mr. Armitage. He knew that eleven feet represented the minimum depth on the bar at low-water springs. It was now close on the neaps, which meant possibly another two feet over the deepest part of the entrance, and the young flood would soon be making.
"Stand clear of the hawser as she takes up the strain," continued the Scoutmaster, addressing Woodleigh and Warkworth. "We don't want broken limbs on this packet. Now, Peter, easy ahead both engines."
By dint of careful manoeuvring the towing-rope tautened without anything carrying away, and presently the Rosalie's motors were running all out. The Pent-y-coote gathered way, and was presently moving at a modest three knots in the wake of her small helper.
The fog was still as thick as ever it had been, while the deviation of course and manoeuvres that had taken place had resulted in Mr. Armitage losing his bearings. Whether he was off Poole Harbour, or farther to the west'ard, he had only the haziest notion. He decided to steer north magnetic, and by the aid of soundings arrive sufficiently close to shallow water to enable him to recognize the coast-line.
For the best part of an hour they held on, hearing nothing, seeing nothing, until the dull rumble of the breakers dead to leeward became audible.
The Scoutmaster was far from easy in his mind. Hampered by a heavy and unwieldy tow, and with the wind right aft, he realized that unless he hit the entrance he would be embayed and possibly driven ashore. If only the fog would lift! The sea, too, was getting considerably confused, a sure indication that the bottom was shoaling.
The roar of the surf prompted the Scoutmaster to alter his plans. He decided to turn and make for the open. Even if the Rosalie and her tow could only hold their own until the fog lifted, the result would be justified. Other help might then be forthcoming. The question was, had the yacht sufficient fuel in the tanks for a prolonged struggle against the wind?
"Hard-a-starboard!"
The Rosalie turned, slowly and jerkily. The Scoutmaster feared for the towing bollards, for the hawser was sagging and snubbing as the tramp began to face the open sea.
"Buoy right ahead, sir!" shouted Hepburn.