“It looks as if we’re going to be a merry party,” observed Symington. “All roads lead to Chichester Harbour. . . . What’s that place, sir?”
He pointed to a large building flanked by two towers and standing on a hill covered with grass of a remarkably vivid hue.
“That’s Osborne House,” replied the Scoutmaster. “It used to be a royal residence. Queen Victoria died there. See that long pier ahead, Talbot? That’s Ryde Pier. Steer to pass about a quarter of a mile from its head. We’re moving, by Jove! At this rate we’ll soon make Chichester Harbour.”
The three yachts were now almost in line, the Kestrel being to wind’ard. They were keeping practically level. If anything, the Kestrel was gaining slightly.
“We’re showing them a clean pair of heels, sir!” remarked Talbot, with no uncertain display of satisfaction.
“Yes, because this wind suits us,” replied Mr. Grant. “If it headed us, and we had to beat to wind’ard, they’d whack us hollow. A ketch is no match for a cutter at that game, so I wouldn’t chip those fellows if I were you. They might have the laugh of us before very long.”
“There’s a rowing boat with a Scout flag over there, sir,” reported Craddock.
Mr. Grant levelled his glasses. A double-sculler manned by three lads in Sea Scouts’ rig was coming out of Wootton Creek. She had just drawn clear of the outer beacon and was pointing towards Ryde.
“Surely those chaps aren’t going to the Jamboree,” remarked Peter. “Not in that cockleshell.”
“They’ve a lot of gear in the boat,” declared Mr. Grant. “I shouldn’t be at all surprised if they are making for Chichester Harbour.”