Suddenly the Merlin forged ahead. She had crawled past the dangerous point and was now aided by a favourable eddy. With a staggering jerk the hawser took up the strain. The Kestrel leapt ahead, her keel missing the steeply shelving ledge by inches.
In another five minutes both craft were stemming the relatively weak tide off the mud-flats of the Hampshire shore.
“Near thing that,” remarked Heavitree. “I thought we should have had to have jumped for it that time.”
“If we had, we should have stood as much chance as a mouse in a pail of water,” rejoined Brandon, glancing at the maelstrom astern. “Next time I think I’d rather wait till the tide turns.”
CHAPTER XVIII
The Admiral
“What’s that fellow staring at us for?” asked Talbot.
“Oh, I don’t know,” replied Symington carelessly, as he stooped to put a final polish on his shore-going boots. “It’s the thing to do afloat. Everyone does, and it’s taken as a sort of compliment to the craft you happen to be aboard.”
“But, just you look at him,” persisted Talbot.
It was the morning following the arrival of the Kestrel and the Merlin in Lymington River. Both craft were brought up on Long Reach and just above the second beacon. As the east-going tide would not run before the afternoon, and as it was almost a hopeless proposition to attempt to stem the adverse tide, the crews of both boats had arranged to go ashore in the forenoon, and were consequently “smartening themselves up” for the occasion.
Symington gave a casual glance. Then he looked a second time. Evidently Talbot’s wonder was justifiable, for breasting the ebb-tide was an open, centre-board sailing boat in the stern-sheets of which sat the only occupant.