"Fine piece of coast, this," observed Mr. Graham. "You'd hardly imagine those cliffs contained little harbours that did a roaring trade in the old smuggling days. There's Hanover Cove, Trevellas Porth, and Trevaunance Cove—picturesque little holes that from seaward would easily pass notice."
"What's the matter with the sea, sir?" suddenly exclaimed Hayes. "It's red!"
At that moment the Spindrift had passed over a clearly defined line. On one side the sea was of a deep green, on the other it was of a vivid red, the red patch extending in semicircular formation with its base shorewards.
"Mundic—a sort of arsenic refuse from the mines," explained the Scoutmaster. "There's a large mine over there, close to Trevaunance, and the pumps throw out the mundic waste into a stream that in turn carries it to the sea. All along the coast you'll see the same sort of thing. Now, how about lunch, you fellows? I'm jolly hungry, if you are not."
Findlay, as "cook of the day ", went below to start up the stove and prepare the meal. There was a certain amount of rivalry between the lads in the matter of providing an appetizing meal, and Jock meant to "keep his end up".
Presently the fragrant odour of grilled steak wafted aft. The Scoutmaster, Desmond, and Hayes sniffed the air and nodded knowingly. Jock was going to do them well.
"All ready, you fellows!" he shouted.
The Spindrift was hove-to on the starboard tack, which meant that if she made any way at all it would be away from the shore. By this time the tide had changed, so that although hove-to she was still being carried towards her desired haven.
Into the cabin Scoutmaster and Sea Scouts scrambled. Findlay, proud as a peacock, served up the first course—pea soup. The hungry crew attacked it ravenously. They were too eager to talk.
After a few spoonfuls Desmond slowed down and watched his companions. Mr. Graham was somewhat critically examining the soup on his plate. Hayes had given up his portion as a bad job and was awaiting corroborative evidence.