“Down spinnaker!”
No need for cautious movements now. Down came the clouds of light canvas. The spinnaker boom was topped up in double quick time. Over went the helm. Brandon and Craddock hauled away on the mainsheet. Heeling, the Kestrel turned into the wind, shot clear of the course, and dropped anchor almost in her former berth.
“It’s been a thundering good race,” declared Mr. Grant, moistening his parched lips; for now that the ordeal was over his tongue felt unpleasantly dry. “Signal to Talbot and the others and tell them to come aboard. We’ll get tea. Hello! There’s the Merlin. When did she arrive, I wonder?”
The Falmouth Sea Scouts had brought up about a hundred yards from the Kestrel, and several other craft lay at anchor between them. Without a dinghy, Mr. Grant could not pay her a visit, although all on board the Kestrel were naturally curious to know what had happened to her.
Presently Symington, Talbot and Wilson, and Eric Little, together with the pup, came alongside.
“I say, sir!” exclaimed Talbot eagerly. “Can we enter for the ex-service boats’ rowing match? We’ve been talking to some Portsmouth Sea Scouts. They say they’ll lend us a gig, if we like to have a shot.”
“Certainly,” replied Mr. Grant, although he knew that his lads, unaccustomed to pulling a heavy four-oared boat and a strange one at that, stood a poor chance of securing a win. “Row ashore and accept the offer, and then hurry back for tea. What time does the race start? Six? Good!”
Talbot had been gone only a few minutes when Craddock reported that the flagship was making a general signal.
“They’re about to announce the result of the race,” he added. “I’ve hoisted our answering pennant, sir.”
Already a number of red and white pennants hoisted “at the dip”—that is, half-way up—indicated that the various craft concerned were ready to receive the impending signal.