“In a farm-house with the others,” replied the Patrol Leader. “All the crew of the vessel have been accounted for. The patrols are being withdrawn. I say, old man, can you walk or have we to carry you?”
“I’ll walk,” declared Craddock stoutly.
They assisted him to his feet. He felt rather groggy, for he had swallowed a fair quantity of salt water and had been considerably bruised in his struggle with the waves. Walking required a great effort, and he was glad to take his chum Brandon’s arm.
“I reckon this night’s work means a Silver Cross for you, my lad,” declared Heavitree.
“Think so?” rejoined Peter. “I say; now I tumble to it. That bucket lashed to our rudder. Blueskin must have done that. Won’t he look bluer than he is when he finds out we know.”
And Craddock went off into fits of hysterical laughter and sat down inertly in a muddy lane.
The Sea Scouts carried him after that.
They did not take him on board that night. Instead, he was put to bed in the shore hospital tent, where Mr. Grant remained watching by his side.
Next morning Peter awoke feeling quite his normal self except for the fact that his limbs were a bit stiff.
That afternoon Peter, accompanied by Mr. Grant, Brandon, and Heavitree, went over to see the man he had rescued. The visit was paid at Blueskin’s request, for the man was really grateful. Nevertheless the expression on his face was one of comical dismay when he recognised the members of the Kestrel’s crew.