Two of the Sea Scouts jumped to tend the head-sheets. Heavitree, boat-hook in hand, took up his station at the main-shrouds. Craddock was at the tiller. The others stood by ready to help the “crew” of the motor boat into safety.
“Up helm a bit . . . at that!” exclaimed Brandon.
The Kestrel, with the wind well abaft the beam, flew past the now almost waterlogged boat. Mistaking the nature of the manœuvre, the brass-buttoned man waved his arms in redoubled frenzy and literally howled when he thought the ketch was leaving him to his fate.
Brandon knew quite well what he was doing. To attempt to bring the Kestrel alongside with a quartering wind would result in the boat being crushed, or at least it would have been impossible to get a hold and retain it. There was only one course practicable, and that was to run to lee’ard, go about, and shoot up into the wind, losing way within a few feet of the object for succour.
“Lee-o!” exclaimed Brandon, loudly and clearly.
Peter put the helm down. Talbot and Symington let fly the jib and foresail sheets; while Wilson hauled away at the slack of the mainsheet. Still keeping the tiller hard over, Craddock attended to the mizzen-sheet.
The Kestrel came about as gracefully as her namesake, turning slowly and unfalteringly. Then, kept down in the eye of the wind, she forged ahead with gradually diminishing way until Heavitree could grip the gunwale of the motor boat with the boat-hook.
By this time the boat had been swamped. Her stern, weighted down by the outboard engine, was six feet beneath the surface, while the bows, kept afloat by the air under the fore-deck, were about a couple of feet above water. To the still floating portion the “crew” clung, while the owner, his face green with terror, abandoned his waterlogged craft and made a jump for the Kestrel’s shrouds. Forgetting the difficulties of “taking off” from a submerged platform, he leapt short but continued to grip the rail. There he hung, submerged to his shoulders, puffing like a grampus as he struggled in vain to haul himself on board the yacht.
The sight of the selfish, cowardly man made Mr. Grant lose his temper—a thing he rarely did. He realised that with the fellow’s bulk between the yacht’s side and the sinking motor boat the difficulty of getting the rest of the party on board was enormously increased. Time, too, was precious, for the Kestrel would soon “pay off” and gather way, in which case the manœuvre of getting alongside the waterlogged craft would have to be repeated.
“Let go, you idiot!” roared the Scoutmaster. “Haven’t you heard of ‘women and children first’?”