It was not until seven in the evening that the Rosalie rounded the North Foreland. The wind had dropped until it was a flat calm, the tide was foul, and, consequently, progress under one engine was slow. Yet it was not tedious. The white cliffs and the numerous buildings ashore provided the Sea Scouts with a constantly changing variety of scenery, while plentiful shipping added to the picturesqueness of the outlook.
"Oughtn't we to see the coast of France, sir?" asked Woodleigh.
"Hardly," replied the Scoutmaster. "It's a good 35 miles away. Even supposing Cape Gris Nez is 400 feet in height, in clear weather it could be seen only from a distance of 27 miles."
"But I can see land in that direction," persisted the sceptical lad. "A little to the right—south'ard, I mean, of that lightship."
"Yes," agreed Mr. Armitage, "you can see land; so can I. But if it were high water you wouldn't. The land is the Goodwin Sands, so named after Earl Goodwin, and forming part of his estates until the sea swallowed it up."
"Quicksands, aren't they, sir?" asked Hepburn.
"Yes, when they are covered. At low tide they are hard—so hard that people have landed and played cricket on them before now."
He paused, and kept his eyes fixed upon a projecting cliff now almost abeam.
"Too jolly slow, I reckon," he remarked. "We've lost our tide. It's running pretty hot."
"We certainly are not progressing very rapidly," agreed Mr. Jackson.