"That's Black Deep," replied the Scoutmaster. "We're all right, so far. Now port helm a point. That ought to take us through Fisherman's Gat."
A few minutes later the hitherto tranquil surface of the water was ruffled with cats' paws. A light breeze from the nor'west'ard was springing up.
"All hands on deck!" shouted the Scoutmaster. "All hands make sail."
Pell-mell the Sea Scouts tumbled on deck. They, too, welcomed the breeze. In a very short space of time canvas was hoisted and sheets trimmed. The Rosalie, heeling to the quartering wind, increased her speed a good two knots.
With the springing up of the breeze the mist disappeared. No longer was the horizon unbroken. Away on the starboard hand a constant stream of shipping was passing up and down the Edinburgh Channel. Ahead lay the Tongue Lightship, making the junction of two of the principal approaches to the Thames. Beyond, and presenting a low indistinct line that could hardly be distinguished from a bank of clouds, lay the shores of Kent, or, to be more precise, the Isle of Thanet.
"Keep her on the lightship, Alan," cautioned Mr. Armitage, as he noticed the boat's head swing a good three points off her course.
"I'm trying to, sir," replied Hepburn, who was now "taking his trick", "but she will fly round. I've got the helm hard-a-starboard now."
Before the Scoutmaster could get to the wheel-house Roche came on deck.
"Starboard engine's konked," he reported. "I can't quite find out what's wrong. Choked jet or something in the carburettor, sir, I think."
"Throttle down your port engine and see if that makes her easier on her helm," said Mr. Armitage.