"All right then," said his companion. "Don't bother about the jack-yarder. Send the jib-headed topsail aloft. She'll carry short for all the wind we're likely to get to-day."
Wilde went for'ard to get the required sail, which was stowed in a bag in one of the fo'c'sle lockers.
"Jehoshaphat!" he ejaculated. "We've a jolly stowaway on board, old man! There's a boy sound asleep in one of the fo'c'sle cots."
"Good job we did lock the cabin, then," rejoined Truscott. "What sort of young blighter is he?"
"A Sea Scout," announced the other.
"A Sea Scout?" snorted Truscott contemptuously. "Never came across one yet who was any good. Sort of glorified beach-combers—useless when by chance they do go to sea. I hope to goodness he doesn't muster his bag in our fo'c'sle. What's to be done with him."
"He's here on board," said Wilde, stating an obvious fact.
"And here he stops," added Truscott grimly. "If he doesn't like it that's his funeral. I'm not putting back to land a rotten stowaway. Get him out of it—sling a bucket of water over him!"
"That's all very well," objected Wilde with a laugh. "But who's going to mop up the fo'c'sle? I know a way."
From one of the cockpit lockers he produced a long metal fog-horn—a kind of exaggerated trumpet. Going for'ard he lowered the instrument until the horn was within six inches of the sleeping lad's face, then, distending his cheeks, Wilde blew a long, ear-splitting, discordant blast.