The Scoutmaster shook his head.
“Let her go,” he replied. “She won’t have another chance to drown anyone. . . . There she goes! Bon voyage!”
The freak craft disappeared from view. Mr. Grant glanced dispassionately at the late owner, who was still in an abject state.
“The yellow streak has shown itself, I notice,” remarked the Scoutmaster. “Well, it’s no use asking him questions. We’ll have to land the crew somewhere. I wonder where they came from?”
“Where shall we make for, sir?” asked Brandon.
“Studland,” replied Mr. Grant. “It’s just round the corner. Give that point a wide berth.”
With a fair tide and beam wind, the Kestrel opened into the wide expanse of Studland Bay. It would have meant a tedious beat shorewards owing to the cliffs blanketing the wind, but fortunately a motor passenger-boat happened to be leaving the shore, and in response to a semaphored message she ran alongside the yacht.
Five minutes later the still considerably scared survivors of the sunken boat were transhipped to the passenger craft, and the Kestrel, running before the wind, resumed her attempt to overhaul the far-distant Merlin.
By this time Mr. Grant had recovered his customary even temper.
“After all, perhaps the silly ass couldn’t help being in a fearful funk,” he remarked. “When all’s said and done, bravery largely consists of being afraid of being afraid. . . . What’s that, Wilson? They’ve made the saloon slopping wet? Well, mop it up. That’ll be another Good Turn to your credit.”