"Do you think it's Greening or Greener, or whatever his name is?" asked Findlay. "Or perhaps it's another Borstal boy escaping from Portland."
"That thought occurred to me," admitted the Scoutmaster, "but there's one flaw in the argument. The skipper of the Gloria vouched for him. It might be a case of sudden mental disorder. 'Ssh! He's speaking—listen."
In silence they listened to the almost one-sided conversation between the red-haired youth and Hayes. They heard the outboard motor starting up, and the ominous silence when the painter fouled the propeller. Then followed the cold-blooded threat to run the Spindrift ashore.
"It's time we took drastic measures, lads," said Mr. Graham calmly. "Fortunately, Hayes isn't on board the yacht. That's what was tying my hands, as it were."
The Scoutmaster took down his portmanteau from one of the racks, opened it, and fumbled amongst an assortment of articles. Producing a small leather holster, he laid it on the cabin table and withdrew from it a short-barrelled automatic taking Service ammunition. "It's rather an un-Scouting article," remarked Mr. Graham, as he proceeded to fill the magazine. "I had doubts about bringing it, but I think the circumstances warrant it."
"Are you going to shoot him, sir?" asked Findlay, rather awe-struck.
"Not if I can help it," was the decided assurance. "We'll have to rush the fellow. Remember, he has a knife."
Desmond armed himself with a knotted towel in which was wrapped up a large iron shackle. Findlay laid hold of a rolling-pin from the galley. It was the first time that it had been used for any purpose since the Sea Scouts took over the yacht, and in Jock's hand it looked a formidable weapon.
The Spindrift was now heeling to starboard—an indication that the young rascal on deck had put the helm up and was getting way on the yacht.
"Stand by!" whispered Mr. Graham.