After lunch Leslie made his way to the quay, returning in an hour's time with the information that Old Garge didn't object (he was not over anxious to avail himself of a supposed amateur's offer of assistance), and that the Fidelity would cast off at seven o'clock that evening.
Clad in an old pair of serge trousers and a brown sweater, and carrying an oilskin coat that, despite the maker's guarantee, stuck tenaciously wherever it was folded, the sub accompanied his wildly-excited brother to the steps, where a boat was in readiness to convey them to the smack.
In the boat was a freckled, chubby-faced, flaxen-haired youngster of about thirteen, whom Leslie introduced to his brother as Tim, great-grandson of the owner and master of the registered fishing-boat Fidelity.
"Where's the Fidelity lying?" enquired the sub, after the youngster had sculled the heavy boat for nearly two hundred yards.
"Down Stakes," was the mysterious reply. "Us'll see her in a minute or so, when us gets round t'bend."
Working the long single oar vigorously, and aided by the strong ebb tide, Tim quickly urged the heavy boat along.
"There he be," he announced. "Third in the row from here."
Sefton looked in the direction indicated. The fishing-fleet was already making preparations for a start. Most of the boats had their mainsails set. Two or three had already slipped moorings, and were gliding down the main channel under the lee of the wooded Brownsea Island.
With the practised eye of a true seaman, the sub realized that, in spite of her sombre garb of grey paint, mottled with tar marks, the Fidelity was "all a boat".
With a sharp entry and fine run aft, noticeable despite the squat stern and heavy transom, the smack showed every promise of speed combined with stiffness. Built with a view of encountering the short steep seas of Poole Bar, she was typical of the weatherly boats that have justly earned a splendid reputation for seaworthiness.