Grasping an electric torch that he always kept within hand’s reach during the night watches, Peter slipped out of his bunk, glided noiselessly out of the cabin, and gained the cockpit. Then, directing the torch towards the quay, he released a dazzling ray.
He was too late to spot the miscreant. In spite of the Sea Scout’s cautious movements, the man had heard the disturbing sounds. Afraid to complete his dastardly work, the fellow had taken to his heels. Peter could hear his boots clattering upon the stone paving.
It was now almost dead low water. The Kestrel was high and dry, supported by legs and lying parallel to and at a distance of a couple of yards from the quay, the edge of which rose quite eight feet above the deck. Consequently the quay served as a ridge to prevent the rays of Peter’s torch sweeping the whole extent of the open expanse between the line of cottages and the creek.
By the time Craddock had gained the cabin-top, whence he could command a view of the adjoining ground, the fellow had disappeared. Although this escape of the miscreant was a disappointment, Peter realised that his hideous plans had been frustrated.
“Who’s there?” enquired Mr. Grant’s voice from the cabin. Aroused by Craddock’s movements—and it is remarkable how plainly the faintest sound can be heard on deck when only three-quarters of an inch of matchboarding intervenes—the Scoutmaster sat up, listening intently. Evidently the fumes of the petrol had not as yet penetrated the bulkhead separating his cabin from the one in which the seven Sea Scouts slept.
Before replying Peter re-entered the saloon. As he did so the puppy gave an aggressive growl. Brandon woke up.
“Phew!” he ejaculated. “What a whiff!”
“It is,” agreed Peter. “Turn out, old son, and rouse the others. Don’t let any of them strike a light. The place is chock full of petrol fumes.”
“What’s that—petrol fumes?” demanded Mr. Grant from the partitioned-off cabin.
“Yes, sir,” replied Craddock. “Can you come on deck? I’ve a torch handy.”