"Good business!" exclaimed Woodleigh approvingly. "Motor?"
"No, sail."
"H'm, s'pose it's all right," rejoined the confirmed marine engine expert. "Pity she hasn't an engine, though. It saves an awful lot of fag if there's no wind. Where is she?"
"At Bude."
"Where's that?"
"North coast of Cornwall. We—that is, Mr. Graham, Findlay, Hayes, and myself—are going by train to Exeter and hiking it across Dartmoor to Bude. It'll be rather good sport, eh?"
"Rather," agreed Woodleigh. "I don't know about the hiking part, though. Never was very keen on tramping—much prefer being afloat. We're going down to Plymouth to tow back a dinghy for a friend of Mr. Armitage."
"Wouldn't it be cheaper to send a small boat like that by rail?" asked Desmond.
"I don't know about that," answered Woodleigh. "You see, we have as much paraffin given us as we want. It's a paraffin engine, you know; and when Mr. Murgatroyd—he's the gentleman who made us a present of the Olivette—handed over the boat, he arranged for us to have paraffin free, so we've only to buy petrol for starting up and oil for lubricating. And fetching that dinghy means going somewhere with a definite object. We'd be cruising in any case, so now we are going to do a good turn. Have you ever been down the West Coast?"
Desmond shook his head.