“We’re in danger of being swept through Portland Race, and it looks as if you are heading straight for it.”
“Are we, by Jove!” ejaculated the Cornishman. “Yes, I can hear the roar now. Our engine muffled the sound. Right-o! pass your line. Course, sou’east?”
“Sou’-sou’-east would be better,” remarked Mr. Grant. “ ’Tany rate, day’s breaking, and we’ll soon see if we’re giving the Race sufficient berth.”
“Right-o!” rejoined Scoutmaster Pendennis. “We’ll do our best, but we’ve only an eight horsepower engine.”
The Merlin forged slowly ahead until she took up the strain of the tow; then, increasing power, she whisked the Kestrel along at a steady five knots.
“You fellows can turn in again,” said Brandon, addressing the Sea Scouts who had been routed out of their bunks.
But the lads showed no desire to go below. In the pale grey dawn they remained on deck, dividing their interest between the Merlin and a broad belt of white-foamed water barely a couple of miles on the port hand. Although the sea everywhere else was calm, the Race was one chaotic mass of broken water, roaring like a wild beast baulked of its prey.
“Good old Merlin!” exclaimed Talbot. “She’s done the trick!”
Mr. Grant did not join in the chorus of appreciation. It was yet too soon to shout. He had his doubts on the ability of the little motor to carry out its heavy task; for, although both yachts were moving in a southerly direction at about five knots, the now strong flood tide was setting in a nor’-easterly direction at a good seven miles an hour. The question that arose was whether the Merlin and her tow could draw clear of the Race in time; although there was some consolation in the fact that the yachts were no longer in danger of being carried into the centre of that tempestuous waste of water.
Almost imperceptibly the Kestrel began to feel the influence of the broken waves. Soon she began to pitch and roll. So did the Merlin, to the accompaniment of a series of heavy jerks on the towing hawser.