"What beats me," remarked Desmond, knitting his brows, "is how we got here. I suppose the anchor tripped. It's a wonder we didn't foul any of the other yachts and vessels in the harbour."
"I suppose the chain didn't part?" suggested Jock. "We can see," replied the Patrol Leader. "Jump into the dinghy. There's still enough water for her." The three Sea Scouts boarded the little cockleshell and paddled towards the bow of the Spindrift. By this time the yacht was well out of water, resting in a shallow groove in a flat-topped, weed-covered shelf of rock. Only six inches of slippery rock separated the keel from a sheer drop into twelve or fifteen feet of water, and, should the supporting tackle give, there was nothing to prevent the yacht falling with a terrific crash into the depths.
"I say," exclaimed Findlay, pointing to the Spindrift's bows. "Who anchored the yacht last night?"
"You did," replied Desmond and Hayes simultaneously.
"Then a pretty mess I made of it," admitted Findlay frankly. "Look at it!"
There was the anchor, which was supposed to have been well down into the mud on the bed of the harbour, one of its flukes hung up on the yacht's bobstay, while a bight of fifteen fathoms of chain trailed uselessly across the rocks.
Back to the yacht the lads went, exercising the greatest caution in getting on board. The sight of the yacht viewed from bows-on had not allayed their fears, but rather the reverse. Almost high and dry she looked immense, and it seemed impossible that the two-inch warp could preserve the balance of the dangerously listing craft.
"We'd better wake Mr. Graham, after all, I think," said Desmond. "He can do nothing—nor can we—but if the yacht did fall over he'd be drowned like a blind kitten in a bucket."
The Patrol Leader went below and touched Mr. Graham's shoulder.
"Hello, up and dressed!" exclaimed the Scoutmaster. "What's the time? Why, it's only half-past six! And the yacht's listing. What's happened?"