"Then there's only one thing to be done," declared Mr. Grant. "We'll have to find a boat and look for Craddock outside."
It was no easy matter to find a boat with oars in her. There were several small craft lying above the bridge, but in each case they were without gear—a fact that pointed silently to the weaknesses of a certain class of Sablesham longshoremen.
"We'll have to knock up one of the boatmen," decided Mr. Grant. "Come on, this way."
It was a long, tedious business. The bridge-keeper furnished the addresses of two or three men who let out boats. Finding them was no easy matter in the ill-lighted streets.
The first house they called at proved a blank. Either the occupier didn't or wouldn't hear the Scoutmaster's knock. At the second the owner opened an upper window and in husky accents bade his visitors, "Clear out, or I'll loose my dawg on yer!"
The third attempt proved successful, although it was quite twenty minutes before the boatman could be prevailed upon to dress and lead the way to the store where he kept his gear. Then the boat had to be baled out, for the heavy rain had filled it almost level with the thwarts, and a second visit had to be made to the store, since the rowlocks provided were too big for that particular craft.
The hour of midnight was striking as the Sea Scouts pushed off in their borrowed boat.
"Give way, lads," ordered Mr. Grant. "Nothing like a little exertion on a wet night."
Knowing the set of the tides, the Scoutmaster felt pretty hopeful that he could pick up the drifting yacht. He was still hoping that Craddock had paid out more chain and that the Puffin would be found brought up within a mile of the entrance to the harbour.
But when the boat gained the open sea Mr. Grant did not feel quite so optimistic. Even at a short distance the harbour lights looked dim. Seaward not a glimmer of any description was visible.