Naturally they were very much envied. They would cross the Bay of Biscay, and see the Rock of Gibraltar. They would steam the whole length of the Mediterranean, and perhaps even go as far as Constantinople. There were glorious possibilities in the adventure, but more than all was the chance they would have of really helping in the war and watching the Queen Elizabeth firing her great fifteen-inch guns into the Turkish forts.
Compared with such prospects, a trip in the Be Prepared was a very small affair indeed.
"I'm afraid we are too late already, sir," said Darby Catchpole, looking out through the harbour mouth to where a panting tug boat was bringing in a strange-looking, green-painted barque.
Mark Redisham followed his glance.
"She's a foreigner," he decided, "and yet she's flying the British flag! How's that? Hullo! look, Mr. Bilverstone! There's a naval officer on her poop deck, and there are some of our bluejackets among her crew."
Mr. Bilverstone was so much interested in the vessel that he stepped out on to the quay and strode along towards the end of the pier. Presently he signalled to the Scouts to join him.
"I expect she's been captured," he said, as the barque came nearer. "Perhaps she has been caught carrying contraband of war."
The tug glided in between the piers, and as the barque followed at the end of the towing warp Mark read the name Olaf Triggvason on her green-painted side. Looking down on her main deck he saw a crowd of foreign sailors lying or seated on the hatch cover, guarded by armed bluejackets. Some of them looked like officers; others were dressed as naval seamen.
"Prisoners of war," said Mr. Bilverstone.
Then he leant forward more eagerly. One of the prisoners, the youngest and most ragged of the lot, had stood up on the hatch cover. He looked across at the group on the quay, and smiled wanly as he raised his hand to the Scout's salute.