An hour later and the leading lights of Aberstour Harbour were sighted at a distance of about four miles.
Brandon was now at the helm. Craddock was on deck for'ard thinking deeply. The rest of the Sea Scouts were either in the cockpit or seated on the cabin-top. Mr. Gregory was below making up his bunk, for he alone of the crew was to sleep on board. The others, according to previous arrangements, were to turn in at the Scouts' Hall, since it was too late for them to disturb their respective parents.
The Puffin was no longer alone. Several of the Aberstour fishing fleet were making for home in order to land their catches in time for market. Most of the boats were fitted with motors, and those which did not possess such a useful means of propulsion were being towed in. Fishermen, like Scouts, are members of a brotherhood in which Good Turns are the order of the day—-and night.
Suddenly a jar shook the Puffin. Peter jumped up and ran aft.
"All right, you fellows!" he exclaimed and dived into the cabin.
"What was that?" inquired Mr. Gregory, still struggling with blankets that obstinately refused to come out of a stiff kit-bag.
"Hit something, sir," replied Craddock; "bit of wreckage. I'll look for'ard."
Lighting a hurricane lamp Peter crawled through the small sliding doorway between the cabin and the fo'c'sle.
"I think she must have strained a plank," he reported breathlessly. "Come and have a look, sir."
Mr. Gregory dropped the kit-bag. Peter stood aside to let him gain the fo'c'sle.