“Lumberjack!” announced Craddock. “That’s the name of the tramp lying next to us at Dartmouth.”
“Why should any of her crew want to play a joke on us, I wonder?” enquired Carline. “Couldn’t you write to the owners and find out the names of the crew, sir? That might explain matters.”
“I am thinking seriously of doing so,” replied Mr. Grant. “There may be more in this business than we know. It’s not merely a practical joke; had we been compelled to tack out of harbour the result might easily have been disastrous. Now, Brandon! Get way on her again. She ought to slip along in a nice breeze like this; and Portland’s still a long way off.”
With that the Scoutmaster went below.
CHAPTER XII
Out of Action
Mr. Grant went to his cabin for a very serious reason. His hand was rapidly swelling. The slight cut he had received when he rescued young Marner from the sinking schooner had resulted in an undoubted case of blood-poisoning. He, who was prone to boast of his immunity from that sort of thing, had at last fallen a victim to the dangerous malady.
For some time he had suspected it. He ought to have gone ashore at Dartmouth and seen a doctor. He would have done but for the fear that he might be ordered to lay up. In that case, the voyage of the Kestrel would have been indefinitely prolonged—long after the forthcoming Jamboree was over. Although Brandon was quite a capable fellow, he held no warrant, without which Sea Scouts are not permitted to go afloat; and it was doubtful whether a fully qualified man could be found to undertake the duties of temporary Scoutmaster.
So, rather than spoil the lads’ chance of taking part in the Chichester Harbour Jamboree, Mr. Grant risked his own.
He had had a restless night. Almost hourly he had crept softly from his bunk lest he should disturb the rest of the crew, and had held the injured hand in very warm water. But all to no seeming purpose. The middle finger was swelling badly, and, what was ominous, sharp, stabbing pains were running up his arm. Curiously, the cut at the base of the fingers appeared to be healing, while the swelling was most pronounced on the knuckle of the same digit.
As he kept his hand in the hot water, Mr. Grant’s thoughts turned to the incident of the bucket. It seemed strange indeed that already the maiden cruise of the Kestrel should be marked by three distinct—or apparently distinct—attempts to bring her to disaster. But were they distinct? Could it be that Blueskin Bone was the instigator of all three? Dick Marner’s innocent admission that his father and Carlo Bone were more than neighbours, coupled with the discovery that Marner senior’s story of the motor bicycle was a deliberate falsehood, tended to shake Mr. Grant’s previous belief in Blueskin’s innocence in the attempt at arson. Carlo Bone had gone to sea. Was it beyond the bounds of coincidence that he was one of the crew of the S.S. Lumberjack?