“Thanks. Sorry you didn’t compete.”
The Cornishman smiled.
“My lads were a bit fagged out,” he replied. “We’ve stood some long tricks this trip. ’Sides, they’re keen on the ex-Service boats’ pulling race and are conserving their strength for that event.”
“We’re entering, too, sir,” announced Talbot.
“The more the merrier,” rejoined Mr. Pendennis.
While the two Scoutmasters were chatting upon various subjects relating to the Jamboree the rest of the Kestrel’s crew went ashore to complete their preparations.
The Portsmouth Sea Scouts were as good as their word, for quite a serviceable gig was hauled up on the hard for the Kestrel lads’ use. More than a dozen other ex-Service boats were also out of the water, their respective crews busily engaged in making ready for the fray or, rather, contest.
“What’s that stuff you’re putting on?” enquired Craddock of a lad who hailed from Pembroke.
“Black lead, look you,” replied the young Welshman. “Want some? We have plenty, look you.”
Seeing that several of the competing boats were being treated in a similar fashion, Peter accepted the generous offer and soon the bottom of the borrowed gig was shining in a coat of black lead thinned down with stale beer—a preparation which, although filthy to handle, is in high favour amongst rowers of racing craft.