With the exception of the volunteer ship-keeper, all hands went ashore, leaving the dinghy on the hard. Proceeding between the avenue of tents where swarms of Sea Scouts were in various stages of “getting all ship-shape,” they gained the open country—a flat but rather pleasing bit of Sussex lying between the harbour and the open sea.
“How firm the sand is!” exclaimed Carline when the lads gained the seashore. “Look! There are fellows riding bicycles on it.”
“And isn’t the tide out?” added Wilson. “When we came in there weren’t any shoals showing.”
“That’s why we had to choose high-water,” remarked Mr. Grant. “Those shoals, although consisting of sand, are quite as dangerous as rocks. A vessel might be pounded to bits in a few minutes if she chanced to get ashore in heavy weather. There’s hardly any wind this evening—it’s almost a flat calm—but you can see the rollers breaking on the exposed edge of the shoals. This harbour happens to be the worst beaconed on the south coast, and in some respects one of the most dangerous ones. If it comes on to blow for any length of time, we might be kept here for a month.”
“How jolly that would be!” exclaimed Wilson.
“I’m afraid you’d feel rather fed-up before the month had passed,” observed the Scoutmaster. “Any place, however much it appeals to you at first, becomes positively irksome if you’re kept there against your inclinations. Well, there’s no sign of the Merlin in the offing. It’s a pity, because it looks as if she won’t be able to take part in the opening sailing race to-morrow afternoon for the Silver Cup.”
“Are we racing, sir?” asked Craddock eagerly.
“Rather.”
“Good egg, sir!” exclaimed Peter.
“Time to be on our return journey,” observed Mr. Grant, consulting his wristlet watch. “We must be on board before sunset.”