It took three attempts to get the Kestrel to come up into the wind so that she might be hove-to. As sluggish as a mule, she absolutely refused to go about until Carline and Wilson got her round by means of a sweep. Then Craddock prodded with the boat-hook, and this time found nothing more resisting than water.
“Whatever it is it has slipped off,” he announced.
“I’ll make sure, in any case,” declared Brandon.
The Patrol Leader made a clean dive, broke surface, and swam to the yacht’s stern. Then, taking a deep breath, he grasped the edge of the rudder and lowered himself towards the Kestrel’s heel.
He was under for nearly half a minute; then he reappeared, puffing and blowing like a grampus.
“There’s a large iron bucket hanging from the lower pintle,” he reported. “I tried to shake it clear, but it’s made fast by about a couple of yards of wire rope.”
“See if you can work the free end of the wire past the stern-post,” suggested Craddock. “I’ll put the helm hard over and see if that frees it.”
“There is no free end,” was the astonishing reply. “Both ends are tightly knotted round the handle of the bucket.”
All hands realised that the obstruction had not been placed there by accident or natural causes. Human agency had been deliberately at work.
“No use arguing about it, lads!” called out Brandon. “Pass me the hack-saw.”