Half an hour later the Olivette entered West Bay. This expanse of water was living up to its reputation as a bay of calms—except when it is rough. Like the little girl with the curl in the middle of her forehead:
"When it is good
It is very, very good;
But when it is bad
It is horrid."
The breeze had died away, and the water was an almost boundless expanse of gentle rollers. The Bill was almost lost in the haze, the high ground behind Lyme Regis and Bridport was entirely hidden in the warm, misty atmosphere. A large yawl bound west was lying becalmed, her white sails shaking from the yards as she wallowed in the swell. Her crew were lying unconcernedly on the deck and hardly noticed the Olivette; but her owner, seated in a deck-chair aft, raised his glasses and kept the Sea Scouts under observation.
"Bet he's a bit sick that he hasn't a motor," remarked Hayes.
"Don't crow," exclaimed Desmond. "This isn't our boat. We may be in the same plight when we bring the Spindrift across West Bay."
Half an hour later the yawl was hull down, her idle canvas showing faintly against the blue sky.
"I say," suddenly exclaimed Jock Findlay. "That's a long way from shore for a small boat, isn't it?"
He pointed to a rowing boat about half a mile on the Olivette's port bow.
"It's a dinghy with a man in her," reported Woodleigh. "He's not rowing. He may be fishing, but I hardly think so. Shall we run alongside, sir?"
"Yes, do," replied Mr. Armitage. "If he's all right there's no harm done. If he's in difficulties we may be able to do him a good turn."