Desmond rolled out of his cot.
"Right-o," he replied, glancing at the dog-tired Scoutmaster. "Hike Jock out of it. Don't bother to disturb Mr. Graham."
Findlay was turned out without ceremony, and the three lads hurriedly threw on their clothes. By the time they went on deck, the tide had fallen considerably, leaving the yacht still heeling slightly to port.
"By Jove!" exclaimed the Patrol Leader, sounding with a boat-hook. "We've done it this time. We're properly in the soup. There's three feet of water to starboard, and I can't touch bottom on the other side. If she rolls right over she'll be done for. Bring the dinghy alongside, Hayes. Jock, bear a hand with the kedge. We'll have to lay it out and get a strain on the warp by the throat halliards. It's our only chance."
The Sea Scouts worked like Trojans. The kedge was carried off to the rocks and a strain taken up on the mast by means of a tackle. So great was the tension that the port shrouds were as taut as fiddle-strings, while those on the starboard side were quite limp. But it was impossible to get the yacht on an even keel. All that could be done was done—and that was to prevent the Spindrift toppling over the ledge into deep water.
"Now," continued the Patrol Leader, "no jumping about. Keep on the starboard side as much as possible. Bring the dinghy aft: we may want her in a hurry."
"I suppose we can just breathe," remarked Findlay jocularly. "That wouldn't disturb the balance, would it?"
The others laughed. The mental tension was broken.
"You can breathe as hard as you jolly well like, Jock," replied the Patrol Leader. "But you won't develop anything like the horse-power that my heart did just now. It was thumping against my ribs like a sledge hammer."
For some minutes the lads remained silent, watching the falling tide. Fortunately there was not a breath of wind and the sea was calm, save for the ripples as the ebb poured through the narrow entrance to the harbour.