At five o'clock Otherport was about two miles away on the starboard bow. The wind was falling light, but Mr. Gregory gave no sign that he had noticed the fact, yet the crew knew perfectly well that on the homeward beat they would have a two-knot tide to run against.
Half an hour later the yacht was abreast of the harbour piers. The Deputy Scoutmaster brought his glasses to bear upon the crowded port.
"H'm," he ejaculated. "I don't think we'll put in. It's later than I thought, lads. Ready about—lee-ho."
The head-sail sheets were let fly, mainsheet hauled in and the helm put down. The Puffin went about and settled down on her dead beat to wind'ard.
"She's not making much, sir," remarked Brandon. "We've hardly gained on those two leading marks."
"Foul tide," explained Mr. Gregory. "We'll keep her on this tack and stand out to sea. We won't feel the tide so much farther out."
He glanced at his watch and then looked aloft at the fluttering burgee.
"Wind dropping, too," he observed. "No matter. If there's a flat calm we've the motor to fall back upon. Now, you fellows, how about tea?"
The meal over and the things stowed away the Sea Scouts gathered in the cock-pit and listened to yarns from their entertaining Acting Scoutmaster.
Lower and lower sank the sun, like a ball of fire in a red sky. The sails flapped and finally hung idly in the still air. The sea, unruffled, seemed a blaze of crimson.