The Scoutmaster glanced at his right hand. There was a small scratch extending from the base of the middle finger almost to the centre of the palm.
“Nothing much,” he remarked. “I expect I caught the business end of a piece of splintered wood. I didn’t even feel it. . . . Get way on her, Peter! Same course, please; we can’t do better than that.”
Presently, judging by sounds emanating from the saloon, Molly and the cat were “having a few words.” The pup was barking shrilly, while the other animal, with arched back, was replying in no uncertain voice.
“Let them alone, and they’ll make friends,” remarked Peter to Talbot, who had expressed his intention of going below and separating the “menagerie.” “The more you jolly well interfere the worse they’ll be—sort of showing off.”
“I wonder if the sea superstition will hold good in our case,” asked Carline. “They say a black cat on board a ship always brings a gale of wind.”
Craddock glanced astern. Twilight was stealing over the misty sea. Through the gathering gloom came a dismal whine—the sound that often heralds the approach of a squall.
“We haven’t long to wait for it, lads!” he exclaimed, making a spring for the cleated mainsheet. “It’s here now!”
CHAPTER VIII
The Man they Rescued
The Kestrel was in an unfavourable position to withstand the first of the squall. She was running almost dead before the present breeze. Should the blast come from even a slightly different direction there was the great risk of an involuntary gybe. The main and mizzen booms would swing over with terrific force and either carry away the runners or else spring one or both masts.
Fortunately, Craddock kept his head. Shouting to Talbot to ease the head-sheets, he put the helm down gently.