[Cover Illustration]
[Illustration: In the Toils of the Dreaded Race At the imminent risk of
being either jerked or washed overboard Brandon fought his way for’ard
hanging on desperately as he battled towards his goal. Then hanging on
with his left hand he succeeded in casting off the rope that held the
“Kestrel” to the “Merlin.”]
T H E S E A S C O U T S
OF
T H E _ K E S T R E L _
The Story of a Cruise of Adventure & Pluck in
a Small Yacht on the English
Channel
_By_
PERCY F. WESTERMAN
Author of
“Clipped Wings,” “Sea Scouts Abroad,” “The
Sea Monarch,” “Under the White
Ensign,” _&c. &c._
_With Coloured Illustrations_
London
Seeley, Service & Co. Limited
196 Shaftesbury Avenue
Printed in Great Britain at
_The Mayflower Press, Plymouth_. William Brendon & Son, Ltd.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
PAGE
Knocked Out 17
CHAPTER II
The Mascot 28
CHAPTER III
An All-night Watch 36
CHAPTER IV
Investigations 44
CHAPTER V
Adrift 51
CHAPTER VI
In the Fog 57
CHAPTER VII
The Derelict 70
CHAPTER VIII
The Man they Rescued 79
CHAPTER IX
What Marner Revealed 87
CHAPTER X
Blueskin’s Plot 96
CHAPTER XI
How it Failed 101
CHAPTER XII
Out of Action 111
CHAPTER XIII
The Stowaway 117
CHAPTER XIV
The Peril of the Race 130
CHAPTER XV
“To be Returned in Due Course” 142
CHAPTER XVI
The “Kestrel” to the Rescue 150
CHAPTER XVII
Becalmed 159
CHAPTER XVIII
The Admiral 168
CHAPTER XIX
The Convict 177
CHAPTER XX
The Last Lap 191
CHAPTER XXI
The Eve of the Jamboree 204
CHAPTER XXII
The Race for the Cup 211
CHAPTER XXIII
A Dead Heat 223
CHAPTER XXIV
Snatched from the Deep 232
CHAPTER XXV
Home Again 245
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
In the Toils of the Dreaded Race _Frontispiece_
PAGE
A Cowardly Deed and a Plucky Rescue 24
An Unwelcome Visitor 184
Returning Good for Evil 240
THE
SEA SCOUTS OF THE “KESTREL”
=The Sea Scouts of the=
=“Kestrel”=
CHAPTER I
Knocked Out
“What’s happened to Mr. Grant, I wonder?” remarked Sea Scout Peter
Craddock, as he gazed anxiously through the gathering twilight. “He’s
late.”
“So will we be, if we keep hanging-on to the slack,” rejoined Patrol
Leader Frank Brandon. “There are only eighteen more days to the Sea
Scouts’ Jamboree, and if we’re to be in it, there’s not a minute to
waste. Mr. Grant’s all right, never you fear.”
Craddock straightened his aching back, wiped the perspiration from his
eyes, and resumed his voluntary though tedious task. He, too, realised
that time was precious if the “Otters” were to be represented at the
forthcoming and eagerly anticipated nautical festivities of the Sea
Scouts’ Jamboree.
The “Otters” were a long way from their native Aberstour. Force of
circumstances had hit them pretty hard of late, but, like corks, they
bobbed up again under adversity as all scouts should do.
For one thing, their staunch little yacht _Puffin_ was no more. She had
foundered at her moorings in a terrific autumn gale that had sprung up
with such suddenness that the official weather forecast had failed to
give any warning whatsoever. Then, Mr. Grant, their Scoutmaster, had a
serious illness that put him out of the running for three months. Patrol
Leader Frank Brandon was away on a five months’ involuntary voyage on a
tramp steamer, and had only just returned.
In the absence of Scoutmaster and Patrol Leader, Peter Craddock did his
level best to keep the troop running, and by dint of sheer enthusiasm he
had succeeded.
Mr. Grant had recovered his health when the Sea Scouts’ Jamboree was
announced. It was to be a gathering of every troop in the United
Kingdom, and was to be held in the spacious land-locked waters of
Chichester harbour. There were to be sailing and motor-boat races,
rowing and sculling matches, swimming and diving contests, and numerous
competitions in which the Sea Scouts were to display their prowess. For
those lads who were unable to come round in their own craft a splendid
camping site was provided; but, as Peter Craddock remarked, a lot of the
fun would be missed if the “Otters” had to hike it by road, and then be
compelled to see others display their seamanship, they themselves being
unable to compete in friendly rivalry. Without the _Puffin_, the outlook
seemed a bit disappointing.
Then, quite unexpectedly, a chance presented itself. The Scoutmaster
heard of a suitable craft offered for sale at a very reasonable figure
owing to the present owner finding himself unable to carry out his
original intentions.
She was an ex-naval “launch”—a boat propelled either by sail or
oars—of very substantial construction and only a few years old. She was
forty-two feet in length and diagonal built. That is to say, she had her
planks doubled, those forming the outer skin running diagonally on those
of the inner skin. This system resulted in great strength of hull, while
in addition the edges of the planking were “flush,” otherwise a smooth
surface.
Her present owner had intended to convert the launch into a ketch yacht,
and had already given her a fairly deep iron keel and had commenced to
deck her in and build a cabin. Then he “stuck” owing to lack of funds;
and to make the best of his bargain offered the craft as she stood.
“As she stood,” meant that she was lying afloat at Polkebo Creek, a
remote inlet of the spacious Cornish harbour of Falmouth, which was a
long way from Aberstour.
The Sea Scouts held a council of ways and means. Fortunately they had
seven weeks’ holiday. The proposal of a trip to Falmouth to bring back
the boat seemed alluring. As for the completion of the conversion job,
the lads were all handy with carpenters’ tools: their Troop funds were
enough to justify the expenses.
The deal was completed, and the “Otters” lost no time in proceeding to
Falmouth and taking over the new craft.
Compared with the _Puffin_ she was a lump of a boat. With her newly
fitted iron keel she was “as stiff as a house.” Her original masts,
sails, anchor, chain and other gear were stored in a shed adjoining the
creek. Timber and other necessary material were readily procurable at
Falmouth. Most of these were brought by water in a serviceable 14-foot
dinghy that had been included in the bargain.
Work progressed apace. The Sea Scouts stuck it gamely, cheerfully
working long hours in the assurance that theirs was a labour of love for
that fickle taskmistress the sea. The kindly fisherfolk of Polkebo took
great interest in “them young furriners,” giving the amateur shipwrights
many useful hints and, what was more, helpful assistance.
There was one exception, however. That was Carlo Bone, generally known
as Blueskin, a hulking lout of about thirty and the despair of the
district. He was tall, heavily built and, with proper exercise and clean
living, ought to have been a formidable figure in the old Cornish
pastime of wrestling. Unfortunately he showed no inclination either to
work or to play decently. When sheer necessity compelled him to work, he
sometimes shipped on board a coaster. The local fisherfolk knew him only
too well, and there was never a berth for him in the pilchard fleet.
During his many spells of idleness “on the beach,” he spent all the time
the Law allows in lounging in public-houses. He was a cunning poacher,
but he had never been caught in the act. Rumour had it that he combined
the undesirable occupations of thief and smuggler. Already his evil life
had left its mark. His face was flabby, and his features were of a
purplish hue. Hence his name Blueskin.
Blueskin had a grievance against the Sea Scouts. He had hoped to obtain
possession of the ex-Service launch by fair means or, preferably, by
foul; but the late owner had refused to part with the boat merely on
vague promises to pay, coming as they did from Carlo Bone. From morning
to night, except when the “Dog and Gun” was open, Blueskin would lounge
about on the quayside and bombard the lads with sarcastic and offensive
remarks, attempting in vain to make them abandon their task.
On the afternoon on which this story opens, Mr. Grant and Sea Scout
Carline had rowed to the Prince of Wales’s pier at Falmouth to bring off
provisions and sundry stores. It was now nearly ten o’clock, and they
had not returned. The long Cornish twilight was setting in. In another
twenty minutes, night would have fallen. For a wonder, Blueskin’s now
familiar and unwelcome figure had not put in an appearance that evening.
“Knock off now, lads!” ordered Brandon. “It’s been a long day, but we
simply had to finish that bulkhead. Start the stove, Wilson, my lad. I
don’t suppose Mr. Grant will be much longer. He’s got a fair tide up.”
Wilson went below, leaving the Patrol Leader, Craddock, Talbot, and
Heavitree to put away the tools and to spread a tarpaulin over the as
yet unpainted cabin-top.
At that moment the Sea Scouts noticed Carlo Bone slouching towards the
quay. At every few steps he stopped and tugged savagely at a length of
rope, the while cursing loudly. At the other end of the rope was a dog,
or rather a puppy of about two months.
With the instinctiveness of its kind, the little animal realised that
something more unpleasant than its usual treatment at the hands of its
brutal owner was in store for it. Vainly it tried to break away, only to
be jerked remorselessly onwards.
“The cad!” muttered Craddock. “He’s doing that just to make us lose our
tempers. He knows Mr. Grant isn’t here, and there isn’t a policeman to
be seen anywhere about.”
Peter Craddock was perfectly right in his surmise. Blueskin was doing
his best to pick a quarrel at the expense of the little animal’s life.
Deliberately, as far as his unsteady gait permitted, he dragged the
puppy to the edge of the quay, where in full view of the Sea Scouts he
bent the free end of the rope round a heavy stone.
For a wonder he said nothing; but the ugly leer on his flabby face was
enough. He was going to drown the dog before the eyes of the practically
helpless Sea Scouts. Nothing short of a display of concerted brute force
could stop him. He knew that. There is no law in the country to prevent
a man drowning his own dog, provided he does it with reasonable
celerity.
The Sea Scouts scrambled on to the quay.
“What are you going to do?” demanded Brandon.
“Gwine ter du? Seems you’ve no eyes, like,” retorted Blueskin thickly.
“You’m not th’ ones tu stop I.”
“Will you sell us the dog?” asked the Patrol Leader.
“Noa, I won’t,” was the ungracious reply. “Thet pup ain’t no gude tu
noabody. Teared my boots tu pieces, ’e did; so in t’water ’e goes. Get
out o’ my way, I tell ye.”
The other Sea Scouts looked helplessly at the Patrol Leader. Brandon
gave no sign. In the circumstances things looked hopeless. Blueskin had
the whip-hand; or at least he thought he had.
He lifted both the puppy and the stone from the ground. . . . Grinned
tauntingly at the lads. . . . Prepared to hurl the terrified animal to
its doom.
Stepping behind his chums, Peter Craddock felt for his keen-edged knife.
He had the ready knack of opening it with one hand. He did so, and as
unostentatiously released it from the swivel.
“Let the brute throw the dog in,” he whispered in Brandon’s ear. “Don’t
attempt to stop him.”
The Patrol Leader turned in amazement. One look at his chum’s determined
features told him that Peter Craddock had something up his sleeve. Peter
had: in a double sense. The keen blade, edge outwards, was nestling
against his wrist.
There was a splash. The puppy, weighted by the heavy stone, struck the
water six feet below the quay. A second later and Peter Craddock took a
magnificent header close to the spot where the little animal had
disappeared.
Craddock was a splendid diver. Three years in succession he had won a
prize in the plate-diving competition at the Aberstour Regatta, and now
he was putting his skill to a practical test.
[Illustration: A Cowardly Deed and a Plucky Rescue
The bully hurled the trembling puppy into the water below the quay, and
immediately Peter Craddock took a magnificent header, his open knife in
his hand ready to sever the rope which fastened the stone to the little
animal’s neck.]
It was a difficult matter to see under the water in the failing
daylight, but before the stone touched bottom, Peter’s left hand caught
the fiercely struggling puppy. One quick movement of the keen knife and
the deed was done. Still retaining his hold of the released animal,
Craddock shot to the surface, and amidst the ringing cheers of his now
thoroughly excited chums struck out for the stone steps at the end of
the quay.
But Blueskin had yet to be reckoned with.
“That’s my pup,” he declared angrily, planting himself in front of the
dripping Sea Scout. “’And ’im ower tu me. In ’e goes intu the ditch
agen, I tells yu.”
“Excuse me,” protested Peter coolly. “It was yours. When you threw the
dog in you threw away all rights to it. It’s ours now. . . . Take charge
of it, please, Brandon.”
The Patrol Leader took the shivering pup. The animal, fearing further
punishment, struggled frantically to gain the shelter of its rescuer’s
protecting arms.
Carlo Bone was flabbergasted. His slowly acting brain was trying to
think out the problem. No doubt that interfering “furriner” was right.
He was a fool not to stop him from diving to the rescue. There yet
remained the question of brute force. He would be more than a match for
the whole crowd of “they Sea Scoutses.”
“Gimme that dawg!” he shouted, striding towards the Patrol Leader.
Peter barred his way. Blueskin aimed a vicious blow at Craddock’s chest.
The Sea Scout, in successfully evading the massive fist, stepped
backwards. As he did so his rubber-soled shoes slithered on the stones,
for no footgear is proof against the slippery quays of the West Country
where fish have just been landed. He fell. The bully promptly dealt him
a kick with his heavy sea-boot.
There is a limit to human endurance, even to that of a well-disciplined
patrol of Scouts. In an instant Fred Heavitree planted himself between
Blueskin and the prostrate Craddock.
Heavitree was the latest recruit to the “Otters.” He was a tall, slim
youth of a somewhat retiring disposition, keen at his work and yet never
before displaying any signs of unusual strength and activity. His chums
were about to get one of life’s surprises; so was Blueskin.
“Keep back, you fellows,” cautioned Heavitree in a low yet compelling
tone.
The bully, thinking he had an easy task, let out a terrific left. Had it
reached its objective, Heavitree would have been lifted clean off his
feet. The Sea Scout was unable to spring back out of harm’s way, because
Craddock was still on the ground. Instead, without moving his feet, he
inclined his body from the waist.
Blueskin’s fist met nothing more resisting than air. Before he could
recover his balance, the Sea Scout had him properly. A tremendous thud
as Heavitree’s left caught the bully fairly between the eyes was almost
simultaneously followed by a heavy right straight to the _solar plexus_.
Heavitree stood his ground, guarding to meet a counter-attack. It was a
judicious but unnecessary precaution, for Carlo Bone, his arms whirling
like windmills, staggered backwards for three or four yards, and
collapsed in a heap upon the rough pavement.