Five minutes later Jock thrust a tousled head through the companion and sniffed inquiringly.
"Where are we now, sir?" was the question Mr. Graham expected—and got.
"Still running up-Channel," was the Scoutmaster's unsatisfactory reply. "Until the fog lifts we must not close the shore."
"I'll give you a spell, sir, directly I've made the cocoa," said Findlay. "We haven't much fresh water left, sir. Only about a gallon."
Left to himself, Mr. Graham threw a used match over the side and watched it drift until it was lost to sight in the fog. By the rate at which it drifted, the Scoutmaster estimated the yacht's speed at three knots. Assuming that that speed had been maintained from the time the Spindrift rounded Land's End, she had already covered a distance of forty miles in thirteen hours—the time the tide was against her being equalized by an equal period when it was in her favour. That meant that she ought to be fifteen or twenty miles east-sou'-east of the Lizard, but Mr. Graham felt none too sure about that.
Presently, Findlay appeared with two cups of steaming cocoa and half a dozen dry biscuits on the lid of a tin.
"I've served out cocoa to the others, sir," he reported.
The Scoutmaster drank his cocoa gratefully, and began to nibble a biscuit. It was only then that he realized how thirsty and hungry he was. He had carried on throughout the night without any desire to eat or drink, and maybe could have held on much longer had not Jock brought the meal on deck.
Then came the almost overpowering desire for sleep. More than once, Findlay, who was as fresh "as paint", caught Mr. Graham nodding his head over the tiller.
"Won't you turn in, sir?" asked the lad. "I'll keep her going and call you if there's anything to report."