“One minute, I’ll be with you, Frank,” said Craddock, proceeding to strip. “It’s not much use sawing at a slack wire. Get a line, Talbot. That’s right. Now, Frank, can you pass this under the handle of the bucket? You can? Good. Now, you fellows, take a strain; put plenty of beef into it and keep the rope taut.”
Craddock then went overboard and swam to give his chum a hand. They found that the strain on the rope had brought the bucket within five or six inches of the surface, and that the wire was as taut as a bar of iron.
“Wouldn’t it be easier and quicker to saw through the handle?” asked Craddock.
“Yes, but we won’t,” decided the Patrol Leader. “Why spoil what seems to be a jolly decent bucket?”
“Well, I’ve kicked the bucket,” declared Peter feelingly.
A roar of laughter greeted this apparently innocent remark. Craddock, failing to grasp the grim significance of the words, couldn’t imagine why his chums should roar because he had stubbed his toe against the submerged article.
Taking turns to use the hack-saw, the two lads set to work energetically. True they broke a couple of blades—mishaps that, owing to the erratic motion of the yacht and their unstable position, were not to be wondered at—but at length the tautened wire parted. The bucket was hauled in deck while Brandon, who believed in doing a good job thoroughly, extricated the stranded wire rope from the narrow gap between the rudder and the stern-post.
“Dirty dogs, whoever they are,” commented the Patrol Leader, after he had hauled himself clear of the water.
“Here’s a clue, anyway,” exclaimed Heavitree.
He pointed to the somewhat dented side of the bucket. On it could be traced the partly obliterated letters in black paint. . . . UM . . . R.J. . . .K.