Springing upon the now steady cabin-top the Patrol Leader flashed a series of dots with his torch. The reply signal came almost immediately, showing that Bedford, Hayes, and Coles were anxiously on the look out for their comrades' return.
"We are bringing yacht alongside," signalled Desmond in Morse. "Swing in boat booms and lay out fenders."
For the next quarter of a mile progress was slow. The ebb-tide was weak, but the wind came only in fitful puffs over the tree-tops.
"We'll get it in a minute," declared the Patrol Leader, pointing to the ruffled water ahead that showed up distinctly in the reflected gleam of the guardship's riding-light.
"That usually happens," observed Mr. Graham. "Often and often a yacht approaches her moorings in a gentle little breeze, then just as she's on, down comes a puff that shoots her past the buoy like a young racehorse.... Findlay!"
"Ay, ay, sir," replied Jock from the cabin.
"How is Mr. Collinson?"
"Still insensible, sir."
"All right; think you can leave him? If so, come on deck. You'll be wanted to make fast when we go alongside."
Findlay obeyed with alacrity; but had it been light Mr. Graham would have had a bit of a shock. The excitement of attending to the injured man, and the Sea Scout's subsequent confinement in the stuffy cabin of the violently pitching and tossing boat, had made the lad sea-sick. Yet, dreading the chance of discovery more than the actual malady, Findlay had not said a word about it, but had stuck gamely to his appointed task.