Arriving at the canal basin, Desmond saw that the ketch was lying alongside the farthermost wall. To get to her necessitated a considerable détour, and, in addition, he had to cross a plank bridge over the lock gates.
As he limped along, Desmond took stock of the little craft. She was spoon-bowed, with a raking transom. There was no name painted on her stern, nor anywhere else as far as the Patrol Leader could discover. Her tanned sails were uncoated and loosely furled ready to be hoisted.
Getting on board with no little difficulty, Desmond found that the cabin doors were locked, which was rather what he expected. The circular hatch in the fore-deck was, however, open.
"Good enough," thought the lad. "I can get into the cabin through the door in the for'ard bulkhead."
He lowered himself into the fo'c'sle. For some seconds he was almost blinded by the sudden change from the dazzling sunshine to the gloom below, especially as his bulk intercepted most of the light from the open hatch.
Rather to his disappointment he found the sliding door closed and bolted on the inside. If he were to gain admittance it would be necessary to obtain the key from the person in charge of the yacht. Desmond was hot, tired, and feeling a fair amount of pain in his injured toe.
"Not worth the fag," he contended. "I'll turn in here."
The fo'c'sle boasted a couple of cots, one folded back against either side of the boat. What struck Desmond as being remarkable was the presence of a number of enamelled cups, saucers, and plates that badly wanted washing up, together with the fragments of a meal consisting of bully beef, sardines, and tinned apricots.
"I expect the workmen have been grubbing here," he hazarded. "They're not Scouts, or they would never have left the place in such a mess."
There was a Primus stove in the gimbals, and close to it a saucepan half filled with lukewarm water. On a nail in the sliding door was a tea-towel.