The suggestion met with unqualified approval.
"All right," added Scoutmaster Grant. "Craddock and I will get the food ready, if you'll stand by the tiller."
Accordingly Peter made for the fo'c'sle and started up the Primus stove, while Mr. Grant prepared the saloon table and foraged in the tiny pantry.
The kettle was almost on the point of boiling when Mr. Clifton shouted down the companion.
"On deck, you two! There's a brute of a squall coming!"
The warning was instantly acted upon. On gaining the deck Craddock saw that it was not an exaggerated one. Less than a quarter of a mile away the hitherto tranquil sea was being lashed into a triangular sheet of white foam—one of those sudden squalls that, although rare, are to be met with in British waters, and of which the barometer gives little or no warning.
"Down with the jack-yarder!" ordered the skipper. "Take the helm, Peter, and luff her up when the squall strikes her."
The two men sprang to the topsail halliard, sheet and downhaul. The two latter "rendered" without a hitch, but the halliard obstinately refused to run through the block.
"Jammed!" exclaimed Mr. Clifton, bringing all his weight to bear upon the downhaul in a vain effort to lower the canvas. "Lower away the peak! That'll ease her."
Before the peak halliard of the mainsail could be cast off from the fife-rail belaying-pin, the squall struck the yacht. With a shrill, eerie shriek the first puff hit the hitherto becalmed vessel, and in spite of her stiffness threw her over almost on to her beam ends, so much so that water poured in torrents over the lee coamings into the water-tight cockpit.