So saying, the Cornish Sea Scout picked up the mop which was lying on deck.
“Got another stick like this?” he asked.
Craddock produced a spare handle from one of the lockers.
“Capital!” exclaimed the other approvingly, and set to work to secure the still insensible man. This he did by inserting one handle in one leg of the convict’s shorts and passing lashings round both the knee and the ankle. The other leg was dealt with similarly, with the result that one end of each mop handle projected about six inches beyond the man’s feet, while, since he would be unable to bend his lower limbs, he would be unable to rise.
“We’ll secure his wrists later,” remarked the Cornish lad. “We must give the fellow a chance to recover.”
“Hello!” exclaimed Heavitree. “Oars!”
The others listened intently. Above the gentle sighing of the wind in the yacht’s rigging came the sound of the regular beats of oars. The long-absent Sea Scouts with their respective Scoutmasters were returning.
“Got any grub ready, Peter?” shouted Brandon, when within hailing distance. “We’re famishing.”
“Sorry, old son,” replied Craddock, “but we’ve been too busy entertaining. Matter of fact, sir,” he continued, addressing Mr. Grant, “we’ve a convict on board. What shall we do with him?”