"We'll try," replied the Scoutmaster.
"You know the way in?" inquired the owner anxiously.
"Yes," replied Mr. Graham briefly. Already he knew enough of the creek to justify the assertion.
"Thanks awfully," was the rejoinder. "And can you phone to my wife, Mrs. Collinson? She's staying at the Solent Hotel, Ryde. Tell her I'm all right, or at any rate reassure her that there's nothing much the matter. Good! Now, I'm ready."
It was not the complicated nature of the injury but the awkwardness of the impromptu surgery that was the difficulty. The motion of the yacht was now so violent that the Sea Scouts had great trouble to maintain their balance, let alone to support and hold the injured man, while Mr. Graham placed the limb in two well-padded splints.
But Mr. Collinson did not "grin and bear it ". Long before the first-aid process was completed he was in a dead faint.
"Just as well," commented the Scoutmaster, "only it will mean telling off one hand to prevent his rolling off the bunk. You stay here, Jock; Desmond and I will get the yacht in. She'll do it easily under foresail only, I think. There's no immediate hurry. We'll have to overhaul the gear before we get the anchor up. It's no use monkeying about with sheets and halliards on a strange craft in the dark after we are under way."
Leaving Findlay in charge of the patient, the Scoutmaster and Desmond went on deck. For a few moments, coming from the lighted cabin, they could see nothing. By degrees their eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. They could discern the high ground on either side of the entrance, but the beacons marking the channel were invisible. All around there was a welter of foaming water.
"We're dragging, sir!" exclaimed the Patrol Leader.
"By Jove, we are!" agreed Mr. Graham, abandoning his intention of overhauling the ropes. "Stand by at the helm, Desmond. I'll get the anchor up and set the staysail. She ought to draw clear."