"Open that door, you silly young ass!" exclaimed the imprisoned man angrily. "A joke's a joke in a way, but this is a bit too thick."
Peter ignored the request. It recalled a very similar speech by the bogus Scoutmaster. Apparently the man had opened the cabin scuttle and had seen that the yacht was drifting out of the harbour.
The teak panels creaked under the pressure of his shoulders.
"Stop that!" said Peter sternly. "If you burst open those doors I'll hit you over the head with the winch-lever."
"What for, you silly owl?" expostulated the captive. "Don't play the fool any longer. You've lost your anchor and cable—I know that—but the pair of us ought to be able to get the yacht back. Come on, now, open that door."
"I will when Mr. Grant comes on board—not before," replied Craddock resolutely. "You wait. He won't be very long."
The prisoner made no audible reply.
Peter then prepared to keep his vigil as best he could in the uncomfortable circumstances. From the sail-locker in the cockpit he pulled out the spitfire jib, the thick canvas of which afforded tolerable protection from the rain. Then, gazing shorewards, he watched the slowly receding lights of Sablesham until they were blotted out in the watery atmosphere.
"Looks like making a night of it," he thought. "The Puffin is like a needle in a haystack in this downpour. By jove! I'd forgotten the dinghy," he added, as the slight dipping of the yacht caused the bowsprit-end to hit the gunwhale of her little tender.
Throwing aside the protecting sail Peter went for'ard, clambered along the bowsprit and dropped into the dinghy. Unbending the painter and sternfast, he brought the boat alongside and made her fast to the yacht's shrouds. This done, he returned to the cockpit.