"There's a coast-guard station on our starboard hand, sir," remarked the Patrol Leader. "It's rather strange they haven't turned out."
"I know," replied Mr. Graham shortly. He was pulling strongly and was disinclined to speak more than was absolutely necessary. He knew that it would be a tough struggle before the dinghy arrived alongside the disabled or distressed craft.
A bend in the creek brought the dinghy abreast of the little hamlet of Fishbourne. The boat was now dead in the eye of the wind, and, although it was nearly high water, there was still a considerable tide setting in. These conditions made the rowers' task a hard one, but it had one advantage: with the wind and tide in the same direction the waves were not so short and steep as they might be were the natural forces acting in opposite ways.
The Sea Scouts had already passed a line of small yachts anchored in the lower reaches of the creek. Several, doubtless belonging to the place, were without anyone on board; others showed gleams of yellow light through their scuttles and skylights. Their owners were comfortably sheltering in their snug cabins, thankful that on such a dirty night they were in a secure anchorage.
On the gravel beach at Fishbourne were several pleasure boats hauled up. The boatmen, in view of the rain, had decided early that it was of no use staying there to look for customers, and they had gone home.
The Sea Scouts' dinghy was barely a hundred yards below the coast-guard station when an oilskin-clad man wearing a sou'wester appeared from the look-out hut. He was obviously puzzled to see a little open boat making seaward on a night like this. Had it been light enough he might have spotted the craft flying the distress signal; but now it was too dark to discern her, and for some unknown reason she failed to display a riding-light.
So both the boatmen and the coast-guards had missed a chance of earning salvage.
"Where is she?" exclaimed Findlay breathlessly, turning his head and shading his eyes with one hand while he pulled with the other.
"I can just make her out," shouted Desmond in reply. "Ough!" ejaculated the bowman, as a shower of spray hit him on the back and a cold stream of salt water trickled down his head. "We look like getting wet shirts before this job's done."
It was soon evident that the task the Sea Scouts had undertaken was not only a strenuous one. It was a dangerous one; but the mute appeal for aid was sufficient. Having set out upon an undertaking they meant to see it through.