Bruin
"We know where we are now, at any rate," commented Mr. Armitage.
"True we are on the wrong side of the Gunfleet, but the lighthouse
enables us to fix our position."
"How did we get so far out of our course?" inquired Mr. Jackson.
"My mistake, I suppose," replied the Scoutmaster. "I must have
underrated the strength of the young flood, and it set us too far to
the west'ard. I can see the N.E. Gunfleet now. Keep that buoy on your
starboard hand, Hepburn. Take a compass-bearing in case the mist
increases again."
Meanwhile Peter Stratton, having completed his toilet, was
meditatively contemplating the pup for which he had risked his life.
The little animal, having had a good feed of bread soaked in
condensed milk, was sitting up and looking, with his head turned
slightly on one side, at his rescuer.
"You are a funny pup," declared the Patrol-leader.
The pup admitted the impeachment by giving a series of short, sharp
barks and wagging his stumpy tail.
He was about two months old. His coat was black with the exception of
a tuft of white hair on his chin and a white patch on his chest. His
hair was fairly long and silky, his nose long and straight, his paws
broad. When he walked he moved with a bear-like gait.
"What sort of animal is he, sir?" asked Peter.
Mr. Armitage refused to accept responsibility.
"Ask Mr. Jackson," he suggested.
"Not much use asking me," said the Oxford Scoutmaster when appealed
to. "Mongrel, I should think, with a strain of sheep-dog about him.
Wonder how he got on the sands?"
"We'll try and find out," replied Mr. Armitage. "We'll semaphore the
Gunfleet Lighthouse and make inquiries. It will give our fellows a
chance to test their signalling knowledge."
"Bit out of our way, isn't it?" inquired Mr. Jackson, after
consulting the chart.
"Yes," admitted the Scoutmaster, "it is. But we'll have a better
opportunity of setting a course across the East Swin and over the
Sunk. There'll be plenty of water for us over the latter sand-bank.
Get the code-book, Peter, and stand by with the ensign and
code-pennant."
By this time the _Rosalie_ had rounded the buoy marking the seaward
extremity of the Gunfleet Sands, and was running down past the
south-eastern side towards the pile-lighthouse.
"Up with the ensign!" ordered the Scoutmaster.
It was not long before the Red Ensign, with the red and white
stripped code flag under it, was observed by the lighthouse, and an
answering pennant fluttered from the latter's flagstaff.
"Hoist VOX," continued Mr. Armitage. "That means," he added in
explanation, "I am going to semaphore to you'. Now, Woodleigh, stand
by with the hand-flags--they're ready."
"Found a dog on the sands; is it yours?" signalled Woodleigh.
"No," was the reply. "We saw it thrown overboard from a bawley two
hours ago. Couldn't get to it."
"Thank you," replied the Sea Scout signaller. "Do you know name or
number of bawley?"
"No," was the brief answer. "No name or number visible."
The _Rosalie_ hauled down her bunting, and, starboarding helm, shaped
a course for the still-distant Kentish shore.
Those of the crew not on duty were discussing the mystery of the pup,
and advancing wondrous theories as to how the little animal came to
be hove overboard.
Had it incurred the wrath of the short-tempered skipper of the
fishing-boat, or had the cook taken summary vengeance upon the little
animal? Or had it fallen overboard unobserved by any of the crew?
"We'll make further inquiries later," decided Mr. Armitage. "I don't
fancy, however, that he will be claimed, especially if someone threw
him overboard deliberately. I suppose you want him, Peter?"
"I'd like to have him, sir--awfully much," replied the Patrol-leader.
"But we all had a hand at rescuing him. Couldn't he belong to the
Troop?"
"Right-o! That's the sort!" exclaimed Woodleigh and Hepburn.
"If you are agreeable," assented the Scoutmaster, genuinely pleased
at Stratton's unselfishness, "we'll adopt him as a mascot. Carried
unanimously! The next item on the programme is what's his name to
be?"
Half a dozen names were suggested, discussed and rejected.
"He's like a young bear," remarked Peter. "Why not call him Bruin?"
"Very suitable, Peter," said the Scoutmaster approvingly. "We'll have
to train him not to gnaw ropes and tear canvas gear. He must live up
to his reputation as a Sea Scout's mascot."
"I'll make a collar for him," declared Hepburn. "I've a spare belt I
can cut down, and there are some strips of brass in the engine-room.
I'll cut his name and address on a piece and rivet it to his collar."
"Go slow, Alan," cautioned Mr. Armitage. "Bruin isn't anything like
full grown yet. If you make a collar to fit he'll outgrow it in a few
months."
"I wouldn't have a flat collar, if I were you," suggested Mr.
Jackson. "It will spoil the dog's fur. Why not a round one--round in
section, I mean--and a brass disk attached to it?"
The lads readily fell in with the idea, and Hepburn and Flemming went
below to put the work in hand, while Peter, recklessly breaking his
comb in two, proceeded to tease out Bruin's tangled and matted coat.
Meanwhile Mr. Armitage had returned to the wheel-house and was busy
with the chart and compass. Woodleigh at the wheel was steering
faultlessly. The _Rosalie_ was now half-way across Barrow Deep and
approaching the shoal water over the Sunk Sand. Already the Gunfleet
Lighthouse had faded in the mist. Not a buoy nor a vessel was
visible. The sands, hidden by the rising tide, gave no sign of their
presence. Optically the yacht was in the midst of a vast sea, but a
deviation from the correct course would speedily pile her upon one of
the submerged dangers that infest the Thames estuary.
"Lightship ahead, sir," reported Woodleigh.
"That's Black Deep," replied the Scoutmaster. "We're all right, so
far. Now port helm a point. That ought to take us through Fisherman's
Gat."
A few minutes later the hitherto tranquil surface of the water was
ruffled with cats' paws. A light breeze from the nor'west'ard was
springing up.
"All hands on deck!" shouted the Scoutmaster. "All hands make sail."
Pell-mell the Sea Scouts tumbled on deck. They, too, welcomed the
breeze. In a very short space of time canvas was hoisted and sheets
trimmed. The _Rosalie_, heeling to the quartering wind, increased her
speed a good two knots.
With the springing up of the breeze the mist disappeared. No longer
was the horizon unbroken. Away on the starboard hand a constant
stream of shipping was passing up and down the Edinburgh Channel.
Ahead lay the Tongue Lightship, making the junction of two of the
principal approaches to the Thames. Beyond, and presenting a low
indistinct line that could hardly be distinguished from a bank of
clouds, lay the shores of Kent, or, to be more precise, the Isle of
Thanet.
"Keep her on the lightship, Alan," cautioned Mr. Armitage, as he
noticed the boat's head swing a good three points off her course.
"I'm trying to, sir," replied Hepburn, who was now "taking his
trick", "but she will fly round. I've got the helm hard-a-starboard
now."
Before the Scoutmaster could get to the wheel-house Roche came on
deck.
"Starboard engine's konked," he reported. "I can't quite find out
what's wrong. Choked jet or something in the carburettor, sir, I
think."
"Throttle down your port engine and see if that makes her easier on
her helm," said Mr. Armitage.
Even running at slow speed on one engine failed to cure the tendency
of the _Rosalie_ to run up into the wind. With her helm hard over she
"gripped" badly. It was a case of either having to stop the port
engine or else stow canvas.
While the Scoutmaster was rapidly deliberating as to the best course
to pursue, a heavy and decidedly uncanny jar shook the vessel. The
revolutions of the port propeller sensibly decreased, and finally the
motor refused duty. Dependent solely upon her canvas, the _Rosalie_
slowed down to a bare two knots.
At the first sign of anything going wrong Roche dived below. Flemming
was already in the motor-room, engaged in the task of taking down the
carburettor, until the giving out of the port engine called for
immediate attention.
"What is it?" asked Roche. "Declutch, and start her up again."
The motor fired easily, but the moment Flemming engaged the clutch,
it stopped.
"Try again, and put her in the reverse," suggested Dick.
Flemming did so. The shaft made perhaps half a dozen revolutions, and
then the motor stopped with a disconcerting thud.
"Something round our propeller; that's what it is," declared Roche.
"I'll see Mr. Armitage."
The Scoutmaster went aft and leant over the taff-rail. Trailing
astern a few feet beneath the surface were the remains of a length of
tarred fishing-net. A few fathoms of it were wound round and round
the shaft as tight as a flexible wire rope.
"It's unfortunate, but it can't be helped," said Mr. Armitage. "We'll
have to carry on under sail until you can get the starboard engine
running, Dick. Found out what's wrong with it?"
"Flemming is taking the carburettor down, sir," replied Roche. "I'll
give him a hand. It will be a twenty minutes' job at the least."
During the time repairs were being effected, the _Rosalie_ made slow
progress. She was under-canvassed, and, owing to her light draught,
made leeway like a crab.
The while Roche and Flemming toiled in the hot engine-room, taking
down pipes, cleaning gauzes and clearing jets. They also removed the
sparking-plugs, washed them in petrol, and rubbed the points with
emery cloth.
Almost to a second on the expiration of the twenty minutes the
starboard motor was restarted, and upon the clutch being engaged in
the ahead position the _Rosalie_ increased her speed to six knots.
"That's better," ejaculated the Scoutmaster fervently. "We stand a
chance of getting into Dover before dark after all. We'll have to lie
aground to get that propeller cleared. That's six or seven hours'
delay."
"Rough luck, sir," commented Hepburn. "Wonder who our Jonah is?"
"Bruin, more than likely," replied Warkworth. "That's why he was
slung overboard."