Woodleigh the Pilot
With the backing of the wind the Olivette now found herself in comparatively calm water. No longer did she ship solid seas over her bows. Spray, caught from the short, steep crests of the waves by the howling wind, swept over her in a continuous shower.
Viewed in the pale dawn, the sea looked a mass of white foam, studded here and there by bobbing black or red conical buoys, while farther away to starboard could be discerned two heavily-pitching lightships—the Nore and the Mouse.
"Take her for a few minutes, Alan," said Mr. Armitage. "Keep those conical buoys on your port hand—a cable's distance off will do."
He went aft to find most of the crew feeling "merry and bright" in the cockpit.
"Quite all right, sir," replied Flemming, in answer to his inquiry. "Isn't it fine? Have a cup of tea, sir?"
The Scoutmaster accepted the beverage gratefully. He was feeling pretty well done up by his long trick at the wheel. His hands, exposed to the spindrift for five consecutive hours, were white and clammy, while his eyes were salt-rimmed by the stinging spray.
"How's Mr. Murgatroyd?" he inquired.
Flemming grinned.
"Getting better, I think," he replied. "Judging by the way he drank his tea, he's able to sit up and take nourishment."