CHAPTER VI
In the Fog
“Turn out, you fellows!” shouted Craddock. “All hands on deck! We’ve parted our cable, and there’s a heavy fog on.”
The rest of the crew tumbled out of their bunks and hammocks and hurried into their clothes. They accepted Peter’s statement without any hesitation, for it was one of the few hard-and-fast rules on board that on no account was a false alarm to be knowingly raised. Skylarking in its proper place was encouraged and harmless practical joking permitted; but each Sea Scout had been impressed with the seriousness of the harm that might occur by raising the nautical equivalent to the shout of “ ’Ware Wolf!” when there was not one.
In various stages of “undress uniform,” Scoutmaster and Sea Scouts gained the deck. The lads remained silent, waiting for Mr. Grant’s orders. He was frankly puzzled. The Kestrel had been anchored surrounded by yachts and boats in the crowded anchorage of Greenbank. It seemed incredible that she should have drifted any distance without fouling some of the craft in the tideway.
Craddock had reported that the cable had parted. Mr. Grant hoped that such was not the case. He had known of anchors being dropped with one of the flukes caught in the bobstay and with only the bight of the chain resting on the bottom. He rather wished such was the case now.
“Get the fog-horn, Wilson,” he ordered. “Two blasts about every minute, please. And, Craddock, you might heave the lead. The others prepare to make sail.”
Groping his way for’ard, for the fog was so thick that even the still burning riding-lamp ten feet above the deck was invisible, Mr. Grant grasped the cable and hauled in the slack. One look was sufficient. The last of the remaining links had been deliberately cut through with a hack-saw. The rest of the chain, together with the anchor, was lying on the bed of Falmouth Harbour—miles away, probably.
It was no time for feelings of resentment and anger. The Scoutmaster came aft.
“What water have we?” he asked.
“No bottom, sir,” reported Peter.