Willing hands assisted Heavitree on deck. The Sea Scouts relieved their pent-up feelings with a rousing cheer, the noise of which brought Mr. Grant hurriedly on deck.
“What’s the matter, lads?” he demanded anxiously, as he blinked in the strong sunlight. Coming straight from the darkened saloon he could see little or nothing. “Why are we hove-to?”
“I fell into the ditch, sir,” replied Heavitree. “Or, nearly. How’s your hand, sir? Mind you don’t hit it against anything.”
“Better go below, sir,” suggested Brandon. “We haven’t sighted Portland Bill yet. I’ll report to you when we do.”
There was a decided streak of obstinacy in Mr. Grant’s nature and occasionally it asserted itself. It did now.
He sat down, still blinking. By this time his eyes were becoming more accustomed to the sunlight. He noticed the untidily stowed spinnaker, then he spotted Eric Little.
“Who’s that, Brandon?” he asked. “What is that lad doing here? How did he come aboard?”
“Our prize stowaway,” replied the Patrol Leader.
CHAPTER XIV
The Peril of the Race
Late in the afternoon the long-looked-for Portland Bill was sighted—not on the port bow, but dead ahead. Apparently in the light air the Kestrel had been carried by an indraught slightly to the nor’ard of her proper course. Progress had been slow, and in consequence she had lost her tide and was now making very little against the west-going stream.