Going on deck, Mr. Grant found that the light Peter had reported was two points on the port bow. By the nature of the flashes—one every second—he recognised it as The Start.
“We’re timing things very nicely,” he observed. “By the time that light’s abeam, it will be dawn. Then we’ll have to close haul in the first tack and get under the lee of the line. We’ll make for Dartmouth and land our passenger. He’s just told me his name is Marner, son of old Dick Marner.”
“The pal of Blueskin Bone, sir?”
“Hope not,” replied Mr. Grant, laughing. “The old man denied the acquaintanceship. However, that’s done with; Blueskin fades out of the picture like a bad dream.”
Almost before the fact could be realised dawn broke. A rosy flush spread over the north-eastern sky, revealing a turmoil of angry, grey-crested waves, for the Kestrel was only a mile or so to the south’ard of The Start, and was feeling the effect of the weather-going tide surging over the ledge of submerged rocks, extending from that bold and dangerous headland.
The yacht was rolling heavily as she ran, but her seaworthiness was now fully established. She was making better weather of it than a vessel of three or four times her tonnage.
“Nor’east a quarter north, now,” ordered the Scoutmaster. “A pull on the mainsheet, Heavitree. I’ll see to the head-sheets.”
Craddock put the helm down. Round came the Kestrel until the youthful helmsman “met her” on the required course. She was now almost, but not quite, close-hauled. The rolling motion gave place to a fairly steady heel. Showers of spray flew inboard over her weather bow, while her lee-bow wave creamed and frothed in a way that gave a fairly true indication of the speed she was making. After running for hours the sense of being close-hauled was unmistakably thrilling.
“Isn’t she hopping it, eh?” exclaimed Heavitree, as he coiled down the flake of the mainsheet. “Hello, sir! Look what you’ve done.”
The Scoutmaster followed the direction of the Sea Scout’s glance. The bandage on his hand was dyed red.