The Patrol-leader Scores
Sunday dawned fair and bright, with a steady off-shore wind. Three
days remained before the time stipulated for the handing over of the
_Rosalie_ at Poole expired, and, given reasonable weather, there was
no reason why the contract should not be carried out.
At nine o'clock the _Rosalie_, with the _Olivette_ following sedately
in her wake, passed between the pier-heads of Littlehampton Harbour,
bound west.
Standing seaward for a mile, in order to clear the shoal patches off
that part of the Sussex shore, both boats then ported helm and
steered for the as yet invisible Selsea Bill.
All hands, including Bruin, were basking on the deck of the
_Rosalie_; while, glancing astern, they could see the owner and two
of the crew of the _Olivette_ perched upon the latter craft's cabin
top.
At intervals the Sea Scouts on the two boats would exchange semaphore
messages. These were mostly of a frivolous nature, but they served to
keep the boys in practice. Mr. Armitage rather prided himself upon
the signalling capabilities of his troop. He had taught them to
receive messages before being able to send them, which is more than
half the battle in learning both Morse and semaphore. He knew from
experience that in the majority of cases a learner who is taught to
send before being able to receive rarely becomes a smart
signalman--and he acted accordingly.
"Keep a sharp look-out, lads," said the Scoutmaster, as the low-lying
Selsea Bill appeared in view. "See who'll be the first to spot the
Mixon--a tall pile with a barrel on top of it. It should be a point
on our starboard bow."
Actuated by the spirit of competition, the Sea Scouts clustered in
the wake of the wheel-house scanning the distant shore; but for a
considerable time their efforts to locate the important sea-mark were
without success.
"Hope the beacon hasn't been washed away," said Mr. Armitage. "Unless
we sight it we'll have a difficulty to find our way through the Looe
Stream. It's narrow, with submerged rocks on both sides, and
generally a nasty tide-rip to complicate matters."
"Fortunately we are not entirely dependent upon sails, nor have we to
beat through," remarked Mr. Jackson.
"That's true," agreed Mr. Armitage, "but, in a way, I'm sorry. The
introduction of marine motors has practically killed seamanship in
yachts. Nowadays when a fellow encounters a foul tide, what does he
do? In nine cases out of ten he starts the engine. Come along, lads,
haven't you spotted the beacon yet?"
"What's that over there, sir?" asked Flemming, pointing to an
indistinct object a good two points off the port bow.
"Why, that's what we're looking for--the Mixon," declared the
Scoutmaster. "We're off our course. I expected to find it off our
starboard bow. Starboard a bit, Peter. That's it. Keep her at that."
The alteration of helm was promptly noticed by the crew of the
_Olivette_. The motor-boat had been maintaining her station
splendidly, the _Rosalie_ having to reduce speed slightly to enable
the slower craft to do so.
Passing a hundred yards to the south'ard of the beacon, both boats
entered the Looe Stream, a short but somewhat intricate cut for craft
making a passage from Spithead to the east'ard. In the actual stream
there was very little sea running, although the tide set strongly,
but on its western edge there was a regular, clearly-defined wall of
tempestuous overfalls.
"We'll get it in a minute or so," declared Mr. Armitage. "Close the
fore-hatch and the engine-room skylights, Peter. There's nothing not
lashed down on deck, I hope?"
The _Rosalie_ plunged bodily into the turmoil. White-crested waves
poured over her bows and surged aft in milky foam, while spray dashed
in showers high over the wheel-house. The belt of disturbed water was
but a hundred yards or so in width. Beyond, the waves were regular.
Flemming was steering. The rest of the crew, including the two
Scoutmasters, looked aft to see how the _Olivette_ was faring.
Greatly to their surprise they noticed that she was slowing down and
displaying a tendency to fall off into the trough of the sea.
"Hope her motor hasn't given out," exclaimed Mr. Armitage.
"I don't think so, sir," replied Stratton. "There's smoke coming from
her exhaust, and the circulating-pump is still working. But, look!
What is Hepburn doing?"
Apparently Warkworth was in the wheel-house. Roche had left the
engine-room, and with Mr. Murgatroyd was standing by the low
stanchion rail on the port side. Alan Hepburn, with one foot on the
broad rubbing-strake, and hanging on with one hand to a stanchion,
was evidently contemplating a plunge overboard. Already all three
were wet through, owing to the spray and the waves that tumbled
inboard as the _Olivette_ rolled in the trough.
Suddenly Hepburn leapt. The watchers on the _Rosalie_ saw that he
took a coil of rope with him. He struck the water feet foremost,
reappearing almost before the splash of the impact had subsided.
Then, raising one arm as a signal, he was hauled back by Mr.
Murgatroyd and Roche.
"What did he do that for?" asked the perplexed Stratton.
The answer, silent but expressive, came from Alan himself, for as he
gained the heaving deck he held up a dank, dishevelled object for the
crew of the _Rosalie_ to read, mark, and learn. It was Bruin.
The pup had been left lying asleep in the yacht's cabin. Unobserved,
Bruin had made his way on deck and had coiled himself up under the
dinghy that, swung inboard, was resting on chocks.
A heavy roll as the _Rosalie_ took it green on the tail of the Looe
Stream sent Bruin into the briny, unnoticed by anyone on board.
It was Warkworth at the helm of the _Olivette_ who spotted the pup as
it struck out in an unavailing attempt to overhaul the yacht.
Shouting to Roche to stop the engines, and hurriedly informing
Hepburn of what had occurred, Warkworth steered as long as the boat
carried way, while Alan, awaiting his opportunity, plunged overboard
to the rescue.
As soon as the _Rosalie_ and the _Olivette_ entered relatively smooth
water, Hepburn, without waiting to shed his saturated garments, stood
on top of the wheel-house and held up a pair of hand-flags at the
"preparatory".
"Acknowledge," said Mr. Armitage. "It's going to be something
caustic, Peter."
It was. The semaphore message was as follows:--
"If Stratton can't look after Bruin better than that he'd better
invest in a golliwog."
"Nasty one that, sir," remarked Peter, with a laugh.
The Sea Scouts were now approaching familiar water. Slightly on the
port bow could be discerned the lofty downs of the Isle of Wight,
while right ahead the three chequered circular forts of Spithead
reared themselves out of the sea like inverted buckets.
"We'll carry our tide right through to Keyhaven," observed Mr.
Armitage. "It may mean a slight delay before we can get in. To-morrow
will be an easy run to Poole."
Not since leaving the Downs did the _Rosalie_ pass so many craft as
she did in Spithead and the Solent. In addition to war-ships, tramps,
and coasters, there were yachts by the score, from single-handed
sloops to large schooners, and motor-launches dashing about in all
directions, a fair percentage steered by men whose knowledge of the
Rule of the Road was, to say the least, elementary.
Cowes, with its crowded Roads, was passed and left astern, and
presently a tall, chimney-like shaft became visible right ahead.
"There's Hurst!" exclaimed Stratton. "I can see the lighthouse. No
need to write home to-night."
Approaching the narrow entrance to Keyhaven with caution, the
_Rosalie_ crossed the bar with less than nine inches of water under
keel. The _Olivette_, drawing a foot and a half less, had no
difficulty in following, and by four o'clock in the afternoon both
craft were moored in the sheltered creek, and the Sea Scouts were
within a mile or so of their homes.
"We'll have tea and then general leave for all hands," said Mr.
Armitage. "You fellows can sleep ashore if you want to, provided you
are on board by nine to-morrow."
He glanced in the direction of the _Olivette_, which was swinging to
the young flood at a distance of fifty yards from the _Rosalie_.
"By Jove!" he exclaimed, and pointed. Stratton, following the
direction of the Scoutmaster's outstretched hand, also uttered an
ejaculation, for swimming strongly for the _Rosalie_ was Bruin. The
_Olivette's_ crew, down below smartening themselves up, were ignorant
that the pup had leaped overboard. Bruin, seized by a sudden
inspiration after the manner of members of the canine world, had
quietly taken to the water in order to rejoin the yacht.
"We'll pull their legs, sir," declared Peter, as he hauled the mascot
on deck. "I'll take him below out of the way and then signal to ask
them where he is. That'll put the wind up them."
"A better way, I think, will be to invite them all on board to tea,"
suggested the Scoutmaster. "We'll have to bring them off in the
dinghy. Then there'll be some commotion when they can't find Bruin.
Hail them, Peter."
At the Patrol-leader's stentorian "Ahoy!" Hepburn's tousled head
appeared above the coaming. Alan was evidently in the midst of his
toilet.
"Tea's nearly ready," shouted Stratton. "Mr. Armitage wants you all
to come on board. We'll send the dinghy."
Within a few minutes Stratton was alongside the _Olivette_. Her crew
boarded the waiting boat, Mr. Murgatroyd beaming with satisfaction at
the picturesque surroundings of the sheltered creek that was to be
the _Olivette's_ home port.
"Where's Bruin?" inquired Stratton. "You aren't going to leave our
mascot all alone, are you, Alan?"
"'Course not," replied Hepburn, although, if the truth be told, Bruin
had been overlooked in the bustle of 'snugging down and squaring up'.
"Here, Bruin--come along, good dog!"
No Bruin appeared. Hepburn whistled, but without the desired result.
"He's asleep in the after-cabin, I expect," he suggested.
"You're a fine fellow to have charge of a dog," said Peter
scornfully. "He ought to appear at once at your whistle."
"Then whistle him for yourself," retorted Alan.
"Not I," rejoined the Patrol-leader. "He's in your care, my festive,
until you return him to the _Rosalie_."
Hepburn whistled yet again. Roche and Warkworth added their quota of
noise, but "nothin' doin'".
"He's probably gnawing my boots in the after-cabin," suggested Mr.
Murgatroyd; "or, if he has cannibalistic tendencies, perhaps he's
going for my dog-skin gloves. Hop aboard, Hepburn, and see what
mischief he is doing."
Alan clambered over the side and went below. Chuckling to himself,
Stratton heard his fellow Sea Scout coaxing and whistling the
invisible mascot. Then Roche joined in the search, until in
desperation the twain began to empty the lockers of their varied
contents, and search numerous out-of-the-way places that were to be
found on even a boat of the _Olivette's_ small displacement.
"Buck up, you fellows!" shouted Peter, as the two Sea Scouts paused
through sheer inability to find an unexplored hiding-place. "What are
you doing? Giving Bruin a bath?"
Looking very red in the face, Hepburn came out of the fo'c'sle and
announced that he couldn't find the pup anywhere.
"Perhaps he's jumped overboard again," suggested Warkworth. "Suicidal
tendencies, I imagine. It's the third time--once off the bawley, then
overboard from the _Rosalie_, and now----"
"Shut up!" ejaculated Alan, who, in common with the other Sea Scouts,
was genuinely fond of the animal.
"When and where did you last see him?" inquired the Patrol-leader.
Neither Hepburn, Roche, nor Warkworth could say definitely. Mr.
Murgatroyd, when appealed to, replied that he had a hazy idea that
he'd noticed Bruin on deck while they were mooring.
"It's no use stopping here and hanging on to the slack," declared
Stratton severely. "If the dog's lost, arguing about it won't find
him. We'll get back to the _Rosalie_."
Alan Hepburn looked at the Patrol-leader in astonishment. He could
not understand why Peter had taken the news so cold-bloodedly, not
even attempting to join in the search.
Rather dejectedly the three Sea Scouts forming the temporary crew of
the _Olivette_ boarded the _Rosalie_.
"Tea's ready," announced Mr. Armitage briskly. "All hands below."
The two Scoutmasters, Mr. Murgatroyd, and the Sea Scouts, with the
exception of Peter, seated themselves at the table. The Patrol-leader
waited until Mr. Armitage had passed the tea-cups round, and then
gravely set a dish with a metal cover in front of Hepburn.
"Make yourself useful, Alan," he said. "Serve that out."
Obediently the unsuspecting lad removed the cover. On the dish was a
golliwog made of rope-yarn and canvas, with a red bunting tongue and
buttons for its eyes.
"What's the joke?" asked the now astonished Alan.
"You sent me a signal, I think," replied Peter calmly. "It concerned
Bruin and a golliwog. Bruin has chosen us, so the golliwog goes to
you. Here, Bruin, good lad."
The pup appeared from the recesses of a locker. Everyone roared at
Alan's expression of amazement, while Hepburn, only too glad to find
that Bruin was no longer missing, joined in the laughter.
"You're one up this time, Peter," he said. "Never mind; it was jolly
well worth it."