Out of Action
Mr. Grant went to his cabin for a very serious reason. His hand was
rapidly swelling. The slight cut he had received when he rescued young
Marner from the sinking schooner had resulted in an undoubted case of
blood-poisoning. He, who was prone to boast of his immunity from that
sort of thing, had at last fallen a victim to the dangerous malady.
For some time he had suspected it. He ought to have gone ashore at
Dartmouth and seen a doctor. He would have done but for the fear that he
might be ordered to lay up. In that case, the voyage of the _Kestrel_
would have been indefinitely prolonged—long after the forthcoming
Jamboree was over. Although Brandon was quite a capable fellow, he held
no warrant, without which Sea Scouts are not permitted to go afloat; and
it was doubtful whether a fully qualified man could be found to
undertake the duties of temporary Scoutmaster.
So, rather than spoil the lads’ chance of taking part in the Chichester
Harbour Jamboree, Mr. Grant risked his own.
He had had a restless night. Almost hourly he had crept softly from his
bunk lest he should disturb the rest of the crew, and had held the
injured hand in very warm water. But all to no seeming purpose. The
middle finger was swelling badly, and, what was ominous, sharp, stabbing
pains were running up his arm. Curiously, the cut at the base of the
fingers appeared to be healing, while the swelling was most pronounced
on the knuckle of the same digit.
As he kept his hand in the hot water, Mr. Grant’s thoughts turned to the
incident of the bucket. It seemed strange indeed that already the maiden
cruise of the _Kestrel_ should be marked by three distinct—or
apparently distinct—attempts to bring her to disaster. But were they
distinct? Could it be that Blueskin Bone was the instigator of all
three? Dick Marner’s innocent admission that his father and Carlo Bone
were more than neighbours, coupled with the discovery that Marner
senior’s story of the motor bicycle was a deliberate falsehood, tended
to shake Mr. Grant’s previous belief in Blueskin’s innocence in the
attempt at arson. Carlo Bone had gone to sea. Was it beyond the bounds
of coincidence that he was one of the crew of the S.S. _Lumberjack_?
He went on thinking and thinking. Presently, in a hazy sort of way, he
became aware that his thoughts were ridiculously disjointed and absurd.
The pain in his arm seemed to be subsiding, but in its stead he felt
uncomfortably hot. His head was buzzing. Grey lights danced in front of
his eyes.
Then Mr. Grant did something he had never done before in his life. He
fainted.
A few minutes later Peter Craddock, who was making his way to the
fo’c’sle, found his Scoutmaster lying inertly across the raised coaming
of his cabin doorway.
Checking his first impulse to alarm the rest of the crew, Peter lifted
the unconscious form and carried it into the saloon. Here, with very
little effort, the Sea Scout lifted Mr. Grant on the lee’ard settee;
then, going to the companion way, asked Heavitree in a matter-of-fact
voice to step below.
“Don’t say anything to the other chaps,” cautioned Peter, when his chum
came below. “Mr. Grant’s fainted. I found him lying in the doorway. Get
some sal volatile and a basin of cold water while I loosen his collar.”
“What made him faint?” asked Heavitree, as he carried out Craddock’s
instructions.
“Don’t know,” replied Peter. “It’s not concussion.”
“His finger, perhaps?”
“Rot!” ejaculated the lad contemptuously. Then he caught sight of the
badly swollen hand. “By Jove! Believe you’re right, old son. I knew he
had a nasty gash, but I never knew it was as bad as this. Skylight’s
open: you might open all the scuttles. The more fresh air the better.”
Presently Mr. Grant opened his eyes and looked dazedly at his youthful
attendants.
“Where am I?” he asked.
“You’re all right, sir,” replied Peter reassuringly. “Heavitree and I
are looking after you. Lie still a little longer.”
The Scoutmaster did so. The ghastly greyish hue on his features was
giving place to the glow of returning vitality. His thoughts were again
becoming coherent, yet he felt a curious sense of resentment at being
ordered to remain quiet.
With returning consciousness came the agonising throb of his swollen
arm. His hand was trailing over the side of the settee. It felt like
lead. He was hardly able to raise it.
“Silly of me to have gone off like that,” he soliloquised. “Well, that’s
put me out of the running for a bit. Hang it all—no! What am I thinking
about?”
A vision of the _Kestrel_ with her youthful crew flashed across his
mind. So far all was going well. The sea was calm, the weather fine.
Brandon knew the course, but would he be able to take the yacht into
port?
“I’ll go on deck now,” he declared.
“No, you won’t, sir,” countered Craddock firmly. “You aren’t fit to go.
Wait till we’ve done something to that hand of yours. You’ll only make
it worse if you bang it against something. I’ll dress it for you. Does
it hurt much?”
“A little,” admitted Mr. Grant deprecatingly, for the pain was now
intense. Possibly in his fall he had jarred the already badly swollen
limb.
Peter went for’ard to boil some water and make a bread poultice. While
the water was being heated he went on deck to tell Brandon and the
others of what had occurred.
He found Talbot at the helm. Symington and Wilson were trying with
varying success to induce Molly to sit up and beg. The pup was willing
enough, but the gentle motion of the yacht was too much for her. Also
she had a not unfounded suspicion that the cat rescued from the
_Euterpe_—young Marner had emphatically declined to take it with
him—was secretly helping herself to the pup’s bowl of milk.
“Where’s Brandon?” asked Peter.
“Up aloft,” replied Talbot, glancing at the cross-trees.
“I’ll be down in half a shake, old son!” called out the Patrol Leader.
“I’ve been trying to sight Portland Bill. It’s too far off yet.”
Craddock swept the horizon. Right astern and on the port quarter the red
hills of Devon were merging into the mist of a hot summer’s day. Broad
on the port beam, where the chalk cliffs make their first appearance on
the south shores of England, land was no longer visible. Neither was it
ahead. To starboard, Peter knew, was the broad expanse of the English
Channel. For the first time in his life, Craddock was about to find
himself out of sight of land. With the exception of Brandon, the other
Sea Scouts were to have a similar experience: afloat with an unbroken
horizon of sea and sky forming a complete circle of which the little
_Kestrel_ formed the exact centre. It was true that they had been out of
sight of land during the fog, but that wasn’t the same thing. Had there
been no fog they would have seen the rugged Cornish coast the whole
time. Now, even in the clearest weather, they would probably be an hour
or more out of sight of land until the wedge-shaped promontory of
Portland showed up on the port bow.
Even as Craddock looked, a strange, muffled voice exclaimed:
“Isn’t it quite about time you fellows liberated me from this
uncomfortable apartment?”