CHAPTER XVII
Becalmed
With all sail set, even the topsail and spinnaker, the Kestrel tore through the water, shaping a course to pass one mile to the south’ard of Hengistbury Head, a bold promontory situated roughly midway between Old Harry and the Needles.
The Merlin was no longer in sight. In vain Brandon, with a pair of binoculars, swung round his neck, went aloft, where, perched on the cross-trees, he brought his glasses to bear upon a limited expanse of horizon that showed between the straining canvas. He could see the brown sails of half a dozen fishing boats and the smoke of a steamer, but of the Cornish Sea Scouts’ craft not a sign.
“They’ve too good a pair of heels for us,” he remarked, when he regained the deck.
“What’s that?” asked Heavitree, pointing slightly on the starboard bow. “There’s something white. Isn’t that the Merlin’s sails?”
“I believe you’re right,” said Carline. “Only she’s a long way out. Let me have the glasses, Brandon.”
The Patrol Leader handed over the binoculars. Carline levelled them at the supposed cloud of canvas.
“Why, it’s a white cliff rising out of the sea,” he exclaimed.
“Yes, the Isle of Wight,” explained Brandon. “It puzzled me at first. From the cross-trees I could make out the Needles. If——”
A dull thud that shook the yacht from truck to keel interrupted the Patrol Leader’s words. For a brief instant the Kestrel seemed to stop dead. It might have been only an illusion, but everyone on deck thought so.