“H’m,” commented Mr. Carter, “strange we aren’t doing better. A few days ago I gave a forty tonner a pluck in, and made quite easy work of it once I got her going. There’s the East Blackstone”—pointing to an isolated rock about half a mile away. “I’ll tow you inside the rock. There’s plenty of water and less tide running. You’re early yet for the up-Channel stream, but with the breeze you’ll stem the tide all right.”
At the East Blackstone the tow-rope was cast off. Mr. Grant regained the Kestrel, and the crew gave a hearty cheer for the benefit of the ex-Scoutmaster. Sail was quickly made, and under all plain canvas the Kestrel was steadied on her course for Portland Bill.
Half an hour passed. The anchored motor boat was still unaccountably near. The Kestrel, in spite of the steady favourable breeze, was not going anything like as fast as she had done in a lighter wind.
The Sea Scouts began to realise the fact and reluctantly they admitted that it was so. Even the dinghy’s painter was slack, whereas in this breeze the water ought to be foaming at her bows.
“We are going slowly, sir,” remarked Craddock.
“That’s what Mr. Carter said,” replied the Scoutmaster. “There’s no reason why we should as far as I can see, unless we’ve fouled a few lobster pots. Look over the bows and see.”
Peter went for’ard and “laid out” along the bowsprit. He could see the yacht’s forefoot showing clearly through the pale green water.
“All clear there, sir,” he reported.
“I don’t see how anything could foul her rudder,” observed Mr. Grant. “The keel band projects sufficiently to prevent that; however, just look to make sure.”
Craddock did so.