At eight o'clock on the following morning the Scouts assembled at the Sea Scouts Hall, as their clubroom was called.
The daily routine consisted of hoisting the ensign, cleaning out the hall, scrubbing and smartening up the dinghy and her gear, and finally airing sails and "turning over" the motor of the Puffin, the Aberstour Sea Scouts' eight-ton auxiliary cutter.
Then, in ordinary circumstances, the patrol on duty went away on a short cruise, while the rest of the Sea Scouts amused themselves as best they could, since it was out of the question to stow twenty-four growing lads on an eight-tonner except in relays.
But this was no ordinary circumstance. The Scoutmaster, Mr. Grant, had been called away on urgent business, and without him, or another responsible "grown-up," the Sea Scouts were not allowed to put to sea.
It was disappointing, but being Scouts they kept smiling.
"I had a letter from Mr. Grant this morning," announced Frank Brandon, Patrol-leader of the Otters, a hefty, sun-burned youth of eighteen, who in addition to being an excellent swimmer was a boxer of no mean prowess. "He says he cannot possibly get back before next Tuesday."
This time the Otters did not smile. Instead of being deprived of their trip in the Puffin until Friday, it meant that their turn would not come round again before half of the next week had passed.
"But," continued the Patrol-leader, "that's only half the news. Cheer up!"
"Well, what is it?" inquired Phillips.
Brandon tapped the pocket of his jersey.