The meal was just fairly under way when the yacht rocked under the weight of a heavy foot on deck. It was the policeman thirsting to give and receive information.
"Lively young limb you've brought in here, sir," he began, producing his inevitable notebook. "We've got him all right this time. Broke out of Portland a week or ten days ago."
"Really?" remarked Mr. Graham. "I'm not surprised. But are you really sure? On our way down Channel last week—not in this boat—we rescued a lad who was arrested at Plymouth as the Borstal boy at large."
"Answerin' to the name o' Gregory, sir?"
"Yes," replied the Scoutmaster. "Do you know him?"
"A lad from Abbotsbury. His people are puttin' in a claim for compensation for illegal arrest. But we ain't made a mistake this time. Here you are, sir; look at this photo."
There certainly was a striking resemblance to the young ruffian. Now he was properly laid by the heels.
"How came you to find him, sir?" asked the policeman.
Mr. Graham had already made up his mind how much to tell and what to keep back. He merely said that he had been put on board from the schooner Gloria from Fowey, and that some time later he had fallen overboard and had been gallantly rescued by Desmond and Findlay. The story of the rascal's escapade he kept dark. The crew of the Spindrift would be no better for the telling of it, and they did not want to waste time by having to give evidence in case other proceedings were instituted. The young rogue would be punished severely for his spell of liberty; he had had a very narrow escape from drowning; and these two cases could be written down as a "set off" to the attempt to seize the yacht. As it turned out, the affair was not serious. Beyond the shattered cabin-doors there was no harm done.
At length the policeman departed and the crew sat down to finish their interrupted supper. This they did. By common consent the ritual of washing up after the meal was placed in abeyance. They were just longing to turn in.