Desmond's first step was to haul the headsail sheets to wind'ard. Fortunately the Spanker was an admirable craft when hove-to. She was now as steady as she could possibly be, forging ahead at less than one knot.
"I'm all right," protested Truscott. "There's a tar-pot and some waste up for'ard. Nothing like a flick of tar to stop bleeding."
Desmond did not view these rough and ready methods of first-aid with anything like approval. Tar, in itself an excellent disinfectant, was hardly suitable for a deep wound in which, more than likely, fragments of rusty wire were embedded.
"I've a first-aid outfit in my kit," he announced, "if you don't mind washing your hands, while I see what I can do for your chum."
"Good lad!" exclaimed Truscott approvingly.
The Patrol Leader fetched his outfit from the fo'c'sle and proceeded to attend to Wilde's injuries. This done, he carefully bandaged Truscott's cuts with boric lint, and not until both men were fixed up as comfortably as possible did Desmond re-dress his own injuries.
"Hadn't we better put back?" he inquired. "I can take the yacht into Bude, but I don't know the Bristol Channel."
Somewhat to Desmond's surprise, Truscott, "who wasn't going to put back for anything or anybody" according to his own words a couple of hours ago, offered no objection. His views of Sea Scouts, and this one in particular, had undergone a rapid change. He knew that Desmond's plan was a sound one. It was a hazardous task for a youth practically single-handed to sail the Spanker almost dead to wind'ard for a matter of fifty or sixty miles of strange waters, when Bude lay an easy distance dead to lee'ard.
"Carry on," he replied. "Can you get her about? Don't gybe her."
Desmond had no intention of gybing. Casting loose the tiller, and trimming the headsail sheets to lee'ard, he soon got way on the vessel. Then, putting her helm down, he "went about" and steered for the now invisible Cornish coast.