There was no response.
"Asleep on duty," continued the skipper of the Thetis jokingly. Then louder: "Peter! Wake up! You're letting her shake!"
Still there was no reply.
The two men exchanged glances. Each read on the other's face an unspoken fear. Simultaneously they made for the companion-ladder, colliding in their frantic rush on deck. Coming directly from the brilliantly-lighted saloon, they could see nothing at first, save the faint gleam of the binnacle lamp. That, they knew, ought to be playing upon the figure of the helmsman. It did not, merely flickering upon the gently flapping mizzen.
"Peter!" shouted the Scoutmaster, vainly hoping that Craddock might have gone for'ard.
"'Fraid he's fallen overboard!" exclaimed Mr. Clifton. "Haul on the mizzen-sheet, Grant. We'll put about. He can't have gone very long."
The owner of the Thetis put the helm hard over. The Scoutmaster fumbled for the mizzen-sheet. Only a few feet remained, one end frayed like a small mop-head.
As the yacht swung head to wind before falling off on the other tack, Mr. Grant secured the swaying mizzen-boom, then going for'ard and steadying himself by the fore-stay he peered through the darkness, shouting at intervals in the hope of hearing a response from the lost Sea Scout.
It was a hopeless task. Both men realised the extreme unlikeliness of the yacht retracing her course. All they could do was to make short tacks, in the hope that by so doing they might pass within hailing distance.
"He's a good swimmer," declared Mr. Grant.