"Attempted scuttling!" exclaimed the Scoutmaster as he closed the valve. "That's done the rascals in the eye this time. Can't hear any more water coming in; but it seems strange that only a little stream like that has filled her."
Ankle deep in black oily water that swirled over the bedplates, Mr. Grant groped his way to the stokehold. Here the depth of water was only a couple of feet. The still burning furnaces, from which hot cinders were continually dropping, fizzling as they came in contact with the water, showed that the Getalong had not been long abandoned.
Thence right for'ard. Here all seemed in order. Beyond the usual "weeping" of the laps of the hull-plating there was nothing to indicate a leak.
"Good enough!" exclaimed the Scoutmaster gleefully, as he made his way on deck.
"She won't sink, lads!" he shouted, as he signalled the dinghy to close.
"What did you do just now, sir?" inquired Craddock. "We saw something shoot to the surface, so we pulled towards it. It was a dead sheep."
"Then that accounts for it," decided Mr. Grant. "There was a regular torrent coming in through the valve until by a lucky chance the suction drew that dead sheep. The carcase acted as a valve and stopped or nearly stopped the inflow. Now it's safe to conclude that the vessel won't sink."
Mr. Grant looked at the Puffin. She was still in about the same place, and fairly visible in spite of the wreathing fog.
"Puffin, ahoy!" he hailed.
"Ay, ay, sir," replied Brandon.