What Marner Revealed
“Light on our port bow, sir!” reported Craddock.
“How far off?” asked Mr. Grant, through the open skylight.
“Miles, sir,” replied Peter. “Another lighthouse, I fancy.”
“Good! I’ll be on deck in a minute,” rejoined the Scoutmaster.
Having reassured himself that Marner was comfortable and almost on the
point of falling asleep, Mr. Grant left the cabin and entered the
saloon. Here he paused and held his hand close to the swinging lamp.
“H’m!” he remarked in an undertone, as he examined the somewhat jagged
cut. “It’s a case of the cobbler being the worst shod, I suppose. I’m
always impressing upon the boys the absolute necessity of guarding
against blood-poisoning, and in my case it’s precept without practice.
Better late than never: I’ll smother the gash with iodine.”
He opened the medicine-chest, found and uncorked the iodine bottle.
“Finger’s throbbing already, I fancy,” he continued.
“How’s your hand, sir?” asked Brandon. “Let me bind it up for you.”
“Thought you were sound asleep, Frank,” remarked the Scoutmaster.
“Thanks awfully, if you will.”
The Patrol Leader slipped out of his bunk and, taking the bottle, poured
a few drops into the jagged wound. The sting of the iodine made Mr.
Grant wince.
“That ought to do the trick, sir,” continued Brandon. “I’ll put a
bandage round your hand. I wouldn’t use it if I were you; but there, you
know all about that sort of thing, sir.”
“I’m supposed to,” admitted the Scoutmaster. “Unfortunately, when it
comes to a personal matter one is apt to let such things slide. That’s
quite comfortable. Now I’ll see what the watch on deck are doing.”
“Do you want me, sir?” asked Brandon. “I’ll turn out, if you like. I’d
be only too pleased to.”
“No need,” replied Mr. Grant. “Sleep while you can. I may want you when
we enter harbour, but that may be hours yet.”
Going on deck, Mr. Grant found that the light Peter had reported was two
points on the port bow. By the nature of the flashes—one every
second—he recognised it as The Start.
“We’re timing things very nicely,” he observed. “By the time that
light’s abeam, it will be dawn. Then we’ll have to close haul in the
first tack and get under the lee of the line. We’ll make for Dartmouth
and land our passenger. He’s just told me his name is Marner, son of old
Dick Marner.”
“The pal of Blueskin Bone, sir?”
“Hope not,” replied Mr. Grant, laughing. “The old man denied the
acquaintanceship. However, that’s done with; Blueskin fades out of the
picture like a bad dream.”
Almost before the fact could be realised dawn broke. A rosy flush spread
over the north-eastern sky, revealing a turmoil of angry, grey-crested
waves, for the _Kestrel_ was only a mile or so to the south’ard of The
Start, and was feeling the effect of the weather-going tide surging over
the ledge of submerged rocks, extending from that bold and dangerous
headland.
The yacht was rolling heavily as she ran, but her seaworthiness was now
fully established. She was making better weather of it than a vessel of
three or four times her tonnage.
“Nor’east a quarter north, now,” ordered the Scoutmaster. “A pull on the
mainsheet, Heavitree. I’ll see to the head-sheets.”
Craddock put the helm down. Round came the _Kestrel_ until the youthful
helmsman “met her” on the required course. She was now almost, but not
quite, close-hauled. The rolling motion gave place to a fairly steady
heel. Showers of spray flew inboard over her weather bow, while her
lee-bow wave creamed and frothed in a way that gave a fairly true
indication of the speed she was making. After running for hours the
sense of being close-hauled was unmistakably thrilling.
“Isn’t she hopping it, eh?” exclaimed Heavitree, as he coiled down the
flake of the mainsheet. “Hello, sir! Look what you’ve done.”
The Scoutmaster followed the direction of the Sea Scout’s glance. The
bandage on his hand was dyed red.
“Must have opened the cut when I handled the jib-sheet,” he thought.
“Well, it’s a good thing it was covered up; no dirt can get to it.”
“It’s nothing much,” he remarked casually. “Now, you fellows, let’s see
who has the keenest eyesight. There should be a conical buoy on our port
bow about a couple of miles off.”
“I see it, sir!” exclaimed Heavitree almost at once. “It’s dead on with
our bowsprit-end.”
“Is it, by Jove!” ejaculated Mr. Grant. “Up helm, Peter! At that! We’re
closer in than I thought. We might have piled the _Kestrel_ on The
Skerries. See those houses just under The Start? That’s Beesands, or
what’s left of it. Most of the village was washed away in a gale. The
fishermen there train dogs to swim out to the returning boats and swim
back with a line. It takes some doing in a rough sea. We’re in smoother
water now. Do you see that high point of land ahead, Peter? Steer for
that; never mind the compass.”
Pointing out various places of interest ashore, Mr. Grant chatted
briskly in order to arouse the obviously flagging spirits of the two
lads. They had stuck it well during the night watches, and now they
kicked against the suggestion that they should go below to be relieved
by Brandon and Talbot.
“Why not bother about the compass, sir?” asked Peter.
“Because for the present it isn’t absolutely necessary,” explained Mr.
Grant. “When you’ve a fixed object to steer by, it saves the strain of
peering into the binnacle-hood. You fellows have had quite enough of
that to-night, or rather last night. Now, Heavitree, nip below and get
the stove going. Nothing like a cup of hot cocoa in the early morning
after a long trick. When it’s ready, tell Brandon to turn out. We’ll
want an extra hand if we have to beat in. This wind will head us, I
fancy, when we’re abreast the Homestone.”
The _Kestrel_ was now so steady that Heavitree had no difficulty in
lighting the stove. In about ten minutes his tousled head appeared,
framed in the companion.
“Cocoa’s ready, sir,” he announced, “and all the others are awake and
want cocoa too.”
“You want me, sir?” asked Brandon, as he edged past Heavitree in the
companion.
“Yes, please,” replied Mr. Grant. “Have your cocoa and a biscuit first,
then tell the others to get their breakfasts when they’re dressed. We
don’t want too many on deck, if we’ve to tack in. And, while you are
about it, you might hand me the chart of Dartmouth Harbour.”
Six o’clock was striking as the _Kestrel_, at one moment heeling to the
fierce blasts that swept down from the lofty ground and at another
gliding with canvas hanging idly in a flat calm, made her way between
the twin castles of St. Petrox and Kingswear, and gained the land-locked
harbour of Dartmouth. Fortunately the first of the flood tide was
setting in, and without much difficulty the yacht gained its anchorage.
“There’s a vacant buoy,” observed Mr. Grant, pointing to one a short
distance astern of a small tramp steamer. “We’ll pick it up. It will be
much safer than riding to a kedge. We’ll have to get another anchor some
time to-day, and the sooner the better. Now, Brandon, let’s see how you
come up to moorings.”
Considering the Patrol Leader was as yet almost a stranger to the
_Kestrel’s_ capabilities he managed remarkably well. Judging the
distance to a nicety, he put the helm down and shot the yacht up into
the wind. Heavitree running for’ard picked up the buoy with a boat-hook,
and hauling in the buoy rope passed the mooring chain round the bitts
before the yacht had time to “fall off.”
“Well done!” exclaimed Mr. Grant approvingly. “Down canvas! Then
breakfast and a jolly good sound sleep!”
“Could do with both, sir,” agreed Craddock feelingly.
But the Scoutmaster had much to do before he could enjoy an already
well-earned rest. As soon as the post-office opened he went ashore in
the dinghy and telegraphed to old Marner the news of his son’s safety.
Also he had to report the matter to the Registrar of Shipping. He then
took the opportunity of communicating with Scoutmaster Pendennis at
Falmouth, acquainting him of the fact that the _Kestrel_ had arrived at
Dartmouth under somewhat unusual conditions and expressing a hope that
even yet the _Merlin_ and the _Kestrel_ would be able to cruise in
company.
His next business was to make arrangements with the local representative
of the Shipwrecked Mariners Aid Society, to have Dick Marner taken
ashore and sent home by train.
Finally, he bought another anchor to replace the one lying on the bed of
Falmouth Harbour.
He returned on board to find all the crew asleep with the exception of
Carline, who had been told off to keep anchor watch.
“You’d better turn in, too, Carline,” said Mr. Grant. “We aren’t getting
under way to-day, and perhaps not to-morrow either. We want fair weather
for the run past Portland Bill, and, judging by this morning’s sunrise,
we aren’t going to get it just at present.”
Going to his own cabin, Mr. Grant saw that Marner was awake.
“Feelin’ fine, sir,” replied the man in answer to the Scoutmaster’s
enquiry. “But I’m fair hungry. That beef tea was all very well, but it
don’t fill a man’s innards, in a manner o’ speakin’, sir. Can’t I have
somethin’ as ’as got summat to bite at?”
“I think so, now,” said Mr. Grant, smiling at the Cornishman’s quaintly
phrased request. “And a boat’s coming for you some time before noon.
You’ll be given your fare to Falmouth, and with luck you’ll be home
to-night. But you’ll have to be careful with that head of yours, and not
shake yourself up too much on your motor bike.”
A look of bewilderment spread over the bronzed features of Dick Marner,
junior.
“Moty bike, sir?” he rejoined. “Can’t say as I follers what you’m
meaning.”
It was Mr. Grant’s turn to look surprised. Could it be that Marner was
suffering from partial loss of memory owing to the injury to his head?
“Surely you remember your motor bicycle at your father’s place at
Polkebo?”
“Never ’ad a moty bicycle in my life, sir,” was the astounding reply.
“Couldn’t ride un if I ’ad.”
The Scoutmaster made no comment, but thought the more. Apparently the
situation required careful handling, but before he could frame a
suitable question, Dick Marner continued:
“Now I comes to think on it, the moty cycle you seed was Blueskin
Bone’s. ’E an’ fayther are neighbours like; an’ Blueskin ain’t got no
shed in ’is garden, and ’aving trouble to get moty cycle up the girt
steps to ’is door, ’e keeps un in fayther’s shed.”
“So that’s it,” thought Mr. Grant. “I wish I’d known that when I
interviewed Mr. Marner, senior, the sly old rascal! However, Blueskin’s
a back number as far as we are concerned. That’s something to be
thankful for.”