"I am," agreed the Scoutmaster, as he started up the stove. "Curiously enough, he'd hardly been afloat before he joined the troop, but he seemed to tumble to things naturally. His father is a farmer in a fairly big way. His grandfather was also a farmer, so it seems strange that the boy should suddenly develop a real sailorman's instincts."
"Possibly if you traced further back you'd find that he had an ancestor who was a pirate, smuggler or merchant adventurer," suggested Mr. Clifton. "The seafaring strain must have skipped several generations and suddenly developed in young Craddock. Sailors are born, not made, you know."
They conversed in loud tones, for the buzzing of the Primus stove and the thud of the waves against the yacht's weather bow rendered conversation in an ordinary tone inaudible.
Once Rex stirred himself and gazed intently through the companion into the dark night, but the action was unnoticed by either of the two men. Apparently satisfied the sheep-dog stretched himself at full length on one of the bunks.
"Kettle's boiling," announced Mr. Clifton, opening the valve of the stove. "Pass along the teapot, please."
The roar of the stove died away.
The two men sat down to the hurried meal.
Happening to glance upwards at the tell-tale compass in the roof of the deckhouse, Mr. Grant gave an exclamation of surprise.
"Hello!" he remarked. "What's Peter doing—dozing? We're four points off our course."
"All right, Peter?" shouted Mr. Clifton.