"But we've the best part of the day before us," Mr. Graham reminded him.
"We're afloat," declared Bedford. "That's the main thing."
He no longer had cause to complain of the cold. The day grew hotter and hotter as the sun rose and the wind dropped, till by ten o'clock the thermometer in the cabin registered 90 degrees.
So far the Spindrift was not alone. She was in company with nearly twenty Brixham trawlers, all practically drifting. They made a pretty sight, with their huge tanned sails casting shimmering reflections on the gently heaving water.
At noon the wind sprang up again and quickly rose to a fresh sailing breeze from the sou'-west. Sheets were soon trimmed, and once more the "kick of the helm"—that delightful sensation to keen sailor-men—asserted itself.
It was not until four in the afternoon that Portland Bill became visible. It was now too late to attempt to round the Bill close to and make for Portland Harbour. To have attempted to do so would have resulted in the little craft being swept into the dreaded Race. Accordingly, a course was shaped to pass four miles south of that notorious headland.
As long as the breeze held, there was little to worry about; but should it fail, as it often does towards evening in summer, there was the prospect of another night afloat. Mr. Graham was anxious to make Swanage or even Poole Harbour. He did not hanker after another night in the Channel, but the Sea Scouts rather hoped for one.
The Brixham fleet was no longer in sight. The boats had stood well away to the south'ard. All around the horizon was unbroken, save to the east'ard, where the wedge-shaped Bill cut the skyline.
At tea-time all hands went below, with the exception of Bedford at the helm. There was now a fairly heavy sea running, for there was a weather-going tide.
In the midst of the meal there was a violent crash. The yacht heeled over on the opposite tack, nearly capsizing the Sea Scouts on the port settee, and flinging most of the things off the table.