Throughout the trip down the Lower Thames—or London River, as it is termed in the sea-faring world—Mr. Armitage remained in the wheel-house, ready to give directions to the helmsman should occasion occur. But, following his usual plan, he allowed the lad at the wheel to exercise his own discretion—a plan that worked admirably. It gave the coxswain confidence, but at the same time he realized that if he did get in a tight corner the Scoutmaster was there, ready to help him out of the difficulty. "We'll carry our tide right to Gravesend, I think," remarked Mr. Armitage, as he shut up the tide-table book. "The flood makes at 6.30."
"Does it matter with a motor?" asked Roche.
"Yes, but not to the same extent as if we were dependent on sail-power. We're doing nine knots now, with a three-knot ebb under us. That means we are doing twelve knots past the land. With the tide against us we would be doing only six. In that case——"
"There's a barge hailing us, sir," reported Warkworth, who was "look-out" on duty. "Wants a tow, I think."
Mr. Armitage went on deck. Eighty or a hundred yards away was a large sprit-rigged Thames barge, light in ballast. She was dropping down with the tide. Her large expanse of tanned canvas was hardly drawing, for the breeze, which had held strongly during the greater part of the day, had "petered out ".
"Tug, ahoy!" hailed the skipper of the barge, a short, rotund man, clad in a blue jersey, tanned trousers and sea-boots, and wearing a billy-cock hat. "Can you give us a pluck as far as Gravesen'?"
Mr. Armitage glanced at Mr. Murgatroyd.
"Go on," said the latter. "It'll be a bit of fun. Let's see what the Olivette can do with a craft like that."
"It will mean increased fuel-consumption," cautioned the Scoutmaster, "and perhaps finishing up against the tide in the dark. We're not off Woolwich yet."
"It's my paraffin you're burning," remarked the owner with a chuckle. "If I don't mind, you needn't. And a run in the dark won't hurt us. It isn't a case of 'I'm afraid to go home in the dark', is it?"