Both yachts, now being propelled by sweeps, were now standing up Channel at a distance of about ten yards between them, so that the crews could keep up a running fire of conversation. The while the Cornish Sea Scouts were tackling the still refractory motor.
It was not until the two craft had practically drifted two miles to the east’ard of the Shambles Lightship that the long-hoped-for breeze sprang up—a steady sou’westerly one.
In grand style the two yachts cut through the water, heading for the still distant St. Alban’s Head. In point of speed there was little to choose, for although the Merlin had a slightly greater displacement and carried more canvas, this advantage was countered by the drag of her now inactive propeller.
“We’ve got to go through another race, lads,” observed Mr. Grant at breakfast. “That’s the one off St. Alban’s, but it won’t be anything like the one off Portland.”
“What causes them, sir?” asked Carline.
“It’s a sort of submarine steeplechase,” explained the Scoutmaster. “A strong tidal water sweeping over a fairly deep and level bed of the sea suddenly encounters a submerged ledge of rocks. The whole of that mass of water has to find its way across in less than half the previous depth, and since the level of the water cannot be materially increased, the result is that the rate of the flow of water has to be greatly increased and causes a succession of overfalls. . . . Well, Eric: feeling better? Good! Make a decent meal, my lad, ’cause you’ve a long journey in front of you.”
“Is it very much further to Chichester?” asked the youth.
“We’re sending you home to Dartmouth.”
“I think you are labouring under a misapprehension, sir,” rejoined the precocious youth. “I’m on my way to visit my aunt and uncle at Chichester—and I won’t go back to Dartmouth! If you won’t take me, I’ll walk the rest of the way.”
“We’ll see,” remarked the Scoutmaster oracularly, and changed the topic of conversation.