"Then that's the high ground behind the Lizard," thought Mr. Graham. "Steer nor'-nor'-east, Desmond," he added aloud, "and we'll make Plymouth Sound in a few hours."
At noon, when the Sea Scouts went to dinner, land was not in sight—not even from the cross-trees. At three in the afternoon, a faint blur to the nor'-west looked like land. Half an hour later the surmise proved to be correct.
It was a rocky coast, broken by lofty hills, but nowhere could Mr. Graham pick out the triangular-shaped promontory of Rame Head, the western portal to the approaches of Plymouth.
It was land, and that was all to be said about it. Somewhere within a few miles was a harbour. The Scoutmaster had no intention of having another night at sea, if it could possibly be avoided.
Again and again he examined the chart, and consulted The Channel Pilot, hoping to recognize the coast by means of the illustrations given in the book.
It might be Falmouth, or Fowey, or perhaps Plymouth—that gap in the coastline. He hoped the last, but he was far from feeling confident about it. Instinctively, the crew realized that their Scoutmaster was out of his reckoning. They treated it as a huge joke.
With a pair of binoculars slung round his neck, Desmond went aloft. Scanning the coast-line from his post of vantage he at length solved the knotty problem.
"It's the Start, sir!" he reported confidently. "And I can see Prawle Point, where we semaphored about young Gregory."
"Nonsense!" exclaimed Mr. Graham sharply.
"It is, sir," declared the Patrol Leader.