The Scoutmaster, not without difficulty, owing to the motion of the boat, gained the after-cabin. It was in a state of disorder. Both his and the owner's belongings had been violently thrown on the floor, which was ankle deep in water. The distressed occupant had omitted to close the scuttle over Mr. Armitage's bunk, and that had caused a steady inflow of spray.
Mr. Murgatroyd, lying on his cot, smiled wanly at the Scoutmaster.
"I'm a rotten sailor, Armitage," he remarked. "But I'll stick it. Feeling better now; but what a night! Why did you leave Gravesend?"
Mr. Armitage explained.
"And all being well, another three hours will find us at Brightlingsea," he added.
"Time for me to find my sea-legs," rejoined the undaunted owner. "I'll be on deck as soon as possible."
The Scoutmaster agreed that it was the best course to pursue. Remaining below in the stuffy cabin, where everything was vibrating with the revolutions of the propeller-shaft, was not conducive to comfort. He could not help admiring the pluck of a man well beyond middle age, who had determined to overcome that dreaded enemy sea-sickness. Mr. Armitage knew from experience what it meant. He, too, had been through the mill.
Regaining the cockpit, the Scoutmaster was more and more aware of the effect of the mental and physical strain he had undergone. For the present practically all danger was past: it behoved him to conserve his energies.
"Quite fit, Woodleigh?" he asked.
"Yes, sir."