The Convict
If, on leaving Lymington River, the _Kestrel_ hadn’t run on the mud; if
the tide had not changed and the wind fallen light; and if the _Merlin_
had not run out of petrol: then the Sea Scouts might have found
themselves at the rendezvous for the Jamboree at eight o’clock that
evening.
It was a combination of adverse circumstances. Running the _Kestrel_
aground was excusable but hardly avoidable. Many a yachtsman with local
knowledge has done much the same, for the beacons, instead of marking
the edge of the channel, are some distance away from it and well up on
the mud. The _Kestrel_ “took the putty” badly and, in spite of the
_Merlin’s_ efforts to tow her off, she remained there for nearly two
hours.
The change of the direction of the tidal stream and the dropping of the
wind, which finally backed to due east, were conditions for which the
Sea Scouts could not be held responsible; but the same could not be said
in excuse for the _Merlin_ running out of petrol.
As a matter of fact, the Sea Scout in charge of the motor had examined
the gauge of the petrol tank, which registered eight gallons.
Unfortunately the indicator had stuck, and the actual amount when the
_Merlin_ went to her consort’s assistance was only one gallon. It was
now _nil_.
This discovery was made when the two yachts were abreast of Egypt Point
and within a mile or so of Cowes Harbour. In vain they attempted to beat
up for that anchorage. Gripped by the steadily increasing foul tide they
were rapidly swept down the Solent until, realising that any further
efforts would only result in their being carried more to the west’ard,
they dropped anchor off Newtown River.
“There’s a hamlet called Newtown and another place called Shalfleet,”
observed Mr. Pendennis, after consulting the chart. “We may be able to
get petrol at one of them. Are any of your fellows coming ashore with
us?”
“We may as well go if we leave a couple of hands to look after the
yachts,” replied Mr. Grant. “The glass is steady and the tide won’t
change for another five hours. It’s good holding ground, and there’s no
fear of either craft dragging her anchor. Right-o! Who’ll volunteer to
remain?”
Craddock and Heavitree offered to act as ship-keepers. Two Cornish Sea
Scouts also elected to stay on board the _Merlin_. The others manned the
two dinghies and prepared to make for the mouth of the river.
“How about Molly?” asked Brandon. “Shall we take her?”
The pup showed such a disinclination to go in the boat that she was left
behind. Usually she was quite excited at the sight of the dinghy being
manned, and was one of the first to scramble over the gunwale. But that
was only when Craddock was to form one of the party. She was fond of
everyone on board, even Eric Little; but she was devoted to Peter. Where
he went she would go, but if he remained on board it required forcible
abduction to get the pup into the boat.
Left to themselves, Craddock and Heavitree had quite an enjoyable
afternoon. They fished, exchanged semaphore and Morse messages with the
_Merlin’s_ ship-keepers, wrote letters, and watched passing shipping.
Six o’clock came, but there were no signs of the two dinghies. The Sea
Scouts had tea, washed up and stowed away the things, and came on deck
again. Still the absent members of the two crews failed to put in an
appearance.
“What’s happened to the others?” asked Peter, hailing the _Merlin_.
“Perhaps they can’t find a garage or a place where they sell petrol,”
replied one of the Falmouth lads. “I’ve been aloft to look, but there’s
only a small part of the harbour to be seen. It runs away behind that
hill to the right of the entrance.”
“More likely they are high and dry on the mud,” added Heavitree. “Ah,
well! We aren’t lonely, and we aren’t idle. I’ve caught enough fish for
supper for all hands.”
“If they are aground they can hardly be blamed for that,” continued the
Cornish Sea Scout. “These tides are fair puzzlers. Down our way we’re
satisfied with two tides a day; here people get four.”
Craddock agreed. It was his first experience of the coast between Cowes
and Weymouth, where a second high water follows the first at anything
from two to four hours later. He had also been used to a rise and fall
of about eighteen feet. Here the range of tide seemed to be about six
feet.
At sunset the main ebb was almost done. The _Kestrel_, anchored nearer
in shore than the _Merlin_, was within fifty yards of the now exposed
gravel banks. Taking soundings, Peter found that the depth was a fathom
and a half.
“So we won’t ground at low tide,” he remarked to his chum. “There’s
nothing to worry about. Let’s go below and make ourselves snug. It’s
pretty nippy this evening.”
Having lighted the riding-lamp and hoisted it on the forestay the two
lads retired to the saloon. Soon they were making a literary feast,
devouring the pages of their favourite weekly paper. Breathlessly they
followed the fearfully exciting adventures. The flight of time passed
unheeded. They had almost forgotten their immediate surroundings in
visualising a stalwart sergeant riding hot-foot across the boundless
prairie in close pursuit of a much-wanted desperado.
Suddenly, Molly gave a low growl.
“Quiet, little girl!” exclaimed Peter.
But the pup refused to keep still. Clambering up the three broad steps
leading from the saloon to the cockpit, she changed her growl to a
succession of shrill barks of defiance.
“What’s up, I wonder?” remarked Heavitree, coming back to earth, or
rather to his floating home. “Are the others returning?”
“Don’t think so,” replied Peter, preparing to go on deck. “Molly’s
welcome is very different from that.”
On gaining the cockpit Craddock stared in bewilderment. It was some
moments before he grew accustomed to the change from the well lighted
cabin to the faint moonlight. When he did he was all the more puzzled,
for, instead of land showing a few hundred yards to starboard, there was
nothing but an expanse of sea dotted with the flashing light of numerous
buoys. Then he looked to port. There was the land—the low-lying ground
to the east of the entrance of Newtown River. He had completely ignored
the fact that the _Kestrel_ had swung to the young flood tide.
“What is it, Molly?” he asked.
The pup, crouching with her forepaws planted against the low rail, was
barking furiously at a dark object floating in the water at less than
ten yards from the yacht’s bows. In the faint moonlight Craddock saw
that it was a basket drifting bottom upwards.
“That’s nothing, pup,” declared the lad. “Haven’t you seen a drifting
basket before?”
But Molly would not be silenced. She seemed to be fascinated by the
derelict wickerwork.
Then Craddock began to be interested, too. And for a very good reason:
the basket was not drifting with the tide. It was moving decidedly
against it and slowly yet surely approaching the _Kestrel’s_ bows.
“Come on deck, old man,” said Peter to his chum, in a low voice; but
Heavitree, who had resumed his absorbing pastime, either did not hear or
did not want to.
Presently the basket disappeared from Peter’s range of vision. From
where he was standing in the cockpit he could not see the surface of the
water in the vicinity of the yacht’s bows. He heard the rasping of the
wickerwork against the _Kestrel’s_ side, and once more the basket
appeared in view, bobbing astern and now drifting naturally with the
tide.
Molly’s bark grew louder and shriller. She had lost all interest in the
basket and was directing her attention to something under the bows.
Before Craddock could go for’ard to investigate, the dripping head and
shoulders of a man appeared above the rail. Then, obtaining a foothold
on the bobstay, the intruder swung himself on the fore-deck, stood up,
and steadied himself by means of the forestay.
“Get that there dawg of yourn out of it afore I ’as to ’urt it,” he
growled.
In the semi-darkness the stranger seemed to tower to a great height.
Actually he was well over six feet, though narrow across the chest. He
was clean-shaven, and wore an overcoat that was many inches too short
for him. He was bare-legged, and it looked as if he were wearing shorts.
Water drained steadily from his meagre and saturated garments.
“Come here, Molly!” exclaimed Peter, fearful lest the intruder should
carry out the alternative he had mentioned.
The pup still refused.
The man, stooping suddenly, grasped the animal by the scruff of the neck
and stepped aft as far as the mainmast.
“Ketch!” he said laconically. “Don’t want to ’urt no dawg, I don’t.”
With that he tossed the pup into Craddock’s hands, throwing her so
gently that, beyond being frightened, no harm was done to her.
“Naw,” continued the intruder, “me an’ you are goin’ for a nice little
cruise-like. ’Tain’t no use kickin’. I’ve been a-watchin’ yer, an’ I
knows there’s only two of you. Ask for no trouble an’ you’ll get none.
Got me?”
Just then Heavitree, hearing voices, was about to come on deck. To him
Peter handed the pup.
“Lock her up and get back here as soon as you can,” he whispered.
Then he addressed the intruder. Already he had no doubt as to the
fellow’s identity. The ill-fitting overcoat failed to conceal a rough
suit of grey cloth liberally bedecked with broad arrows. Obviously this
was the convict under sentence for robbery with violence, and in all
probability he would not hesitate to take desperate measures to prolong
his spell of liberty. Yet, Peter recalled, he had been gentle with a
dumb animal even though Molly had attempted to snap at his gnarled
fingers.
“What do you want?” demanded the Sea Scout. “It’s no use coming here.”
“Isn’t it, my young pal?” replied the convict. “That’s for me to say.
Now look ’ere: all I want is a bite o’ food an’ summat to drink. Then
I’ll trouble you to ’and over any clothes belongin’ to that tall bloke I
seed go ashore this arternoon. Then you’ll put me across t’other side
an’ you’ll get my best thanks. If you don’t——’Ere, you, get down out
of it. You won’t be wanted this trip.”
[Illustration: An Unwelcome Visitor
The convict hesitated. He did not like the look of the business end of
the boat-hook, nor did he relish the probability of a crack across the
head from the serviceable lump of iron which Heavitree gripped in
readiness.]
The latter remarks were addressed to Heavitree, who having placed Molly
out of harm’s way had come out of the saloon to “join in the argument,”
as he expressed it. Far from complying with the convict’s demands he
went to stand beside Craddock and unobtrusively unshipped a heavy
belaying-pin. “Get out of it!” repeated the convict. Heavitree raising
his arm resolutely remained where he was. Craddock gave one glance in
the direction of the _Merlin_. No one was to be seen on her deck. More
than likely her two ship-keepers were amusing themselves below. In any
case, there was not much likelihood of help in that direction. The two
Sea Scouts on the Cornish yacht were without a dinghy, and being further
out in the tideway, they would run a serious risk of being carried away
if they attempted to swim to the aid of their brother-Scouts on the
_Kestrel_. If Peter and Heavitree were to “win through,” they would
evidently have to do so on their own merits.
Realising this, Craddock picked up the boat-hook which was lying on the
waterways by the side of the cockpit coaming. It was a formidable
weapon, consisting of about eight feet of stout ash pole terminating in
a combined point and hook of galvanised iron.
Armed resistance was one of the last things the miscreant had counted
upon. He had staked his chances upon the likelihood of being able to
overawe a couple of lads, but he had failed to estimate correctly the
physical and moral fibre of the average Sea Scout. As a general rule,
the burglar who employs brute force when dealing with a weak and
terrified householder is an arrant coward, easily terrified when
threatened with corporal punishment. When he finds that “the game is
up,” he will refrain from violence because he knows that on conviction
his sentence will be far heavier than if he had contented himself solely
with ordinary house-breaking. On the other hand, if he thinks he can get
clear he will not hesitate to stun or wound the person who attempts his
capture.
The convict hesitated. He did not like the look of the business end of
the boat-hook, the staff of which was held in a pair of firm, steady
hands. Nor did he relish the probability of a crack across the head from
the serviceable lump of iron which Heavitree gripped in readiness.
“Be reasonable, chums!” he whined. “’Ere’s a pore bloke wrongfully
convicted who’s got a chance to get clear. Be sports an’ give him a
’elping ’and.”
“We will,” agreed Peter grimly. “We’ll give the police a helping hand,
so you’d better surrender and give no further trouble.”
“S’pose I’d better,” rejoined the convict sullenly. “I sees myself back
in quod, ’cause ’ere come your pals in their boat.”
Instinctively the two Sea Scouts turned their heads to follow the
direction of the crafty rogue’s glance. It was exactly what the convict
hoped they would do.
In a trice he leapt across the cabin-top. Before Peter could recover his
guard the fellow was within the wavering point of the boat-hook. The
next instant he grasped Heavitree’s right wrist, rendering the
belaying-pin useless as a weapon either of defence or offence.
But there was one thing he forgot. Accustomed to having a dry and
comparatively unyielding solid ground, he was quite unused to the motion
of a vessel. Even a forty-foot yacht responds perceptibly to the weight
of a person moving on deck. In his wild onslaught he lost his balance.
His bare feet slipped on the wet painted canvas of the cabin-top. He
fell heavily, bringing Heavitree down with him.
In vain Heavitree tried to get in his terrible upper cut to the point.
The convict’s face seemed as if it were made of metal. He gave a grunt
as the Sea Scout’s fist jolted his chin, then with a quick movement his
fingers closed upon the lad’s throat.
For a moment Craddock was unable to distinguish friend from foe in the
deep shadows of the cockpit. Then he heard his chum’s choking cry as he
gasped for breath. Snatching another belaying-pin from the rack, Peter
brought the iron bar down with considerable force upon the back of the
convict’s closely cropped head.
The man seemed to crumple up. He subsided inertly across the body of the
Sea Scout he had tried to choke into insensibility.
Extricating Heavitree from his decidedly unpleasant situation, Peter set
his chum down upon one of the seats in the cockpit. For several minutes,
Heavitree could do nothing but gasp, swallowing mouthfuls of the pure
ozone-laden air, until his companion grew alarmed.
“It’s all right, I think,” spluttered Heavitree. “I don’t think I’m hurt
much, but I feel like a jelly. What’s happened to the chap? You haven’t
killed him?”
“Hardly,” replied Peter. “His skull is too thick for that. I gave him a
tap to quiet him. Hello! more of them?”
A pair of hands appeared over the side of the yacht, followed by a head.
It was one of the crew of the _Merlin_. Alarmed by the commotion on
board the _Kestrel_, he had boldly dived overboard and swum to the aid
of his brother-Scouts. It was a risky thing to do, and by the time he
had battled against the strong flood tide he was nearly exhausted. Peter
assisted the lad on board and explained matters.
“My word!” exclaimed the Cornish lad. “This is some trip! We can’t say
the voyage has been dull, can we? Cheerful looking fellow, isn’t he?
Hadn’t we better secure him before he comes round?”
“He looks as if he is about to recover consciousness,” said Peter.
“In that case we’ll get busy,” rejoined the _Merlin’s_ representative.
“There’s no need to lash him up. Let me show you how we do things down
our way.”
So saying, the Cornish Sea Scout picked up the mop which was lying on
deck.
“Got another stick like this?” he asked.
Craddock produced a spare handle from one of the lockers.
“Capital!” exclaimed the other approvingly, and set to work to secure
the still insensible man. This he did by inserting one handle in one leg
of the convict’s shorts and passing lashings round both the knee and the
ankle. The other leg was dealt with similarly, with the result that one
end of each mop handle projected about six inches beyond the man’s feet,
while, since he would be unable to bend his lower limbs, he would be
unable to rise.
“We’ll secure his wrists later,” remarked the Cornish lad. “We must give
the fellow a chance to recover.”
“Hello!” exclaimed Heavitree. “Oars!”
The others listened intently. Above the gentle sighing of the wind in
the yacht’s rigging came the sound of the regular beats of oars. The
long-absent Sea Scouts with their respective Scoutmasters were
returning.
“Got any grub ready, Peter?” shouted Brandon, when within hailing
distance. “We’re famishing.”
“Sorry, old son,” replied Craddock, “but we’ve been too busy
entertaining. Matter of fact, sir,” he continued, addressing Mr. Grant,
“we’ve a convict on board. What shall we do with him?”