"Hardly," replied the Scoutmaster, shaking his head. "They'll look upon our part of the business from a level-headed point of view. They used us as instruments to further their ends—and that without consulting us. They took their chances and got let down. Revenge rarely enters into the case as far as an Englishman is concerned, even amongst rogues."
"Of course, with Spaniards and Italians the case is different. No, I don't think we have any cause for anxiety on that score. Slack off that lee runner a bit, Carline. That's right. Now, Peter, another couple of feet home with that mainsheet."
A couple of hours' run brought the Puffin within hailing distance of the Vang Lightship. The shipkeepers knew the Sea Scouts and guessed their errand.
"Coming aboard, sir?" inquired the mate, who happened to be in charge of the lightship in the absence of the master on shore leave.
"Not to-day, thank you," replied Mr. Grant, noticing that the Vang was riding stern to tide, and was in consequence pitching considerably. "We've just had our topsides painted. Stand by for papers."
One of the men produced a landing-net lashed to the end of a boathook. The Puffin, with staysail a-weather, crept slowly under the lee of the huge, lobster-red hull.
Deftly Brandon transferred the packet of newspapers to the net, receiving in return a small waterproof bag containing the lightship's "mail."
"Righto!" shouted Mr. Grant. "We'll post that little lot for you well before post time. Sheet home, Peter. Up helm, Tom."
"Plenty of time yet, sir," remarked Brandon as the Puffin drew clear of the securely-moored lightship. "Can't we have a run seaward and come back on the young flood?"
"Just what I was about to suggest," agreed the Scoutmaster. "The wind's dropping, I fancy. Plenty of petrol in the tank, I hope?"