"Now, you fellows, avast yarning," cautioned Scoutmaster Armitage. "You'll all be as limp as rags when it comes to turning out to-morrow."
The buzz of voices from the crowded fo'c'sle ceased. Ten boys, packed, like sardines in a triangular compartment twenty feet by ten, had had considerable difficulty in turning in. Each of the iron cots on either side had its blanketed occupant; two Sea Scouts were lying on the floor. It was "sleeping rough" with a vengeance; but, as these conditions were "for this night only", the youngsters made the best of things and rather enjoyed the situation.
"I hope your cot-lashing's strong enough," said Desmond drowsily, addressing Woodleigh, whose hefty person was barely a couple of feet above the speaker. "If that carries away you'll flatten me out, old son."
"It's all right," rejoined Woodleigh with a yawn. "Night-night, old thing."
In less than a minute Woodleigh was asleep, his example being quickly followed by the rest of the Olivette's crew. But not so the three supernumeraries. In strange surroundings they could not help keeping awake.
"What's that noise, Desmond?" whispered Hayes. "It sounds like water pouring in. Is she leaking, do you think?"
"No," replied the Patrol Leader. "It's the tide rippling past the boat's side."
Five minutes later Hayes declared that there was another weird noise.
"Mooring chain rubbing against the boat's forefoot," explained Desmond. "For goodness' sake don't keep on chattering. I want to get to sleep."
"It's not that I mean," persisted the lad. "There's a sort of gnawing sound. Can't you hear it?"