At 1 a.m. the Eddystone was abeam at a distance of about two miles. It was still too hazy to pick up the powerful Start light, and there was no object in “cracking on” and arriving off that dangerous headland before dawn.
Accordingly a couple of reefs were taken in the mainsail, and the staysail was lowered and “bonneted” to the bowsprit. Even then the Kestrel maintained a fair speed and rode the waves like a cork, with the dinghy’s bows high in the air as she strained at the end of a double length of stout 50-feet rope.
“Isn’t this top-hole, sir?” exclaimed Peter enthusiastically. “I’d rather be in the Kestrel than in that tramp which passed us some time ago.”
Before the Scoutmaster could offer any remark Brandon came out of the cabin.
“The man has come to,” he announced oracularly.
“How does he feel? Did he say?” asked Mr. Grant.
“Said he was thirsty, sir.”
Telling Craddock to take the helm, Mr. Grant went below.
He found the rescued man quite rational in spite of the serious injury to his head. Reiterating the fact that he was thirsty, he continued by asking where he was.
The Scoutmaster explained.