All eyes on board the Puffin were watching the mysterious tramp as the yacht moved slowly past the former's port side. The vessel's bows were well up and the stern correspondingly depressed.
Already the water, fortunately calm, was level with the scuttles in her quarter; yet she showed no tendency to list.
"No closer," cautioned Mr. Grant to Brandon at the tiller. "Round-to well away from her stern and let's see her name."
The Patrol-leader carried out his instructions, and the crew saw the letters, "Getalong, London," painted on her rounded stern.
"She's not getting along, is she?" whispered Carline.
"Unless it's to the bottom of the sea," added Hopcroft, rather awestruck at the thought that an apparently seaworthy ship was doomed. "Will it be safe to watch her go, sir?"
The Scoutmaster did not reply. He was thinking deeply over a puzzling problem. Here was a steam vessel abandoned. There were no evidences of her having been in collision. Her fires were still in.
Outwardly there was nothing to suggest a disaster, save for the ship being deep down aft. Yet she did not appear to be foundering rapidly. As far as he could judge she had not sunk another six inches during the last five or ten minutes.
A desire to render assistance, coupled with pardonable curiosity, prompted Mr. Grant to board her. On the other hand caution urged him to keep away. He was responsible for the lives of his youthful crew, and on that account he hesitated.
"I wonder if she is abandoned?" remarked Brandon. "Suppose there are people on board—gassed, injured, or something like that? Oughtn't we to make sure, sir?"