Meanwhile the Kestrel’s mascot had been making steady progress. After much deliberation the Sea Scouts had decided to bestow the name of Molly upon the little animal. She was no longer the terrified, half-drowned puppy that Peter had rescued from the dark waters of the creek. Her coat, carefully combed and brushed, had acquired a gloss; her ribs were no longer painfully in evidence. Already she realised that a human hand could be something else than a means of imparting pain, although it was some time before she ceased to cringe in fear of a possible unwarranted thrashing.
“I wish Molly would be a little bit livelier,” remarked Peter. “I’ve never seen such a sedate pup.”
“Don’t you worry, old son,” rejoined Brandon. “She’s all right. P’raps before long she’ll be too lively, even for you. How about a collar for her?”
“Later on,” decided Craddock. “If she had one now she’d grow out of it in a week or so. I’ll make one when we’re under way. As it is, we haven’t a minute to spare.”
That was a fact. Time was getting on, and there was still much to be done if the Kestrel were to sail in company with the Merlin.
At length the eve of the eventful day arrived. To-morrow at the hour of ten in the morning the voyage up Channel was timed to commence, that hour being fixed to enable both yachts to take advantage of the first of the east-going tide.
The Kestrel, glistening in her new coat of paint, looked very different from the half-completed craft the Sea Scouts had taken over only a short while ago. She was now a ketch-rigged yacht with a spacious cockpit and ample accommodation under her cabin-top. Her original sails had been altered to form a serviceable and yet moderate spread of canvas. The only thing wanting was a motor; but, as Craddock observed, “Drake hadn’t a motor when he sailed round the world; so we ought to manage to find our way up Channel without one.”
“All the same I wish we had an engine,” said Carline. “The Kestrel is a whopping lump of a craft to move in a dead calm.”
“We may get a motor some day,” added Mr. Grant. “When we’ve been shipmates with one the lack of an engine seems a serious matter. We must cut our coat according to our cloth, you know. Now, lads, the tide’s making well. We’re nearly afloat, so get busy.”
The Kestrel was to be taken from Polkebo Creek that evening and sailed down to a berth off Greenbank at Falmouth, where the Merlin was lying, in order that both craft might start together.