[Illustration: cover (front)]
[Illustration: cover (spine)]
SEA SCOUTS ABROAD
BY
PERCY F. WESTERMAN
LIEUT. R.A.F.
"No boy alive will be able to peruse Mr. Westerman's pages
without a quickening of his pulses."--Outlook.
The Third Officer: A Present-day Pirate Story.
Sea Scouts Abroad: Further Adventures of the _Olivette_.
The Salving of the "Fusi Yama": A Post-War
Story of the Sea.
Sea Scouts All: How the _Olivette_ was won.
Winning his Wings: A Story of the R.A.F.
The Thick of the Fray at Zeebrugge: April, 1918.
With Beatty off Jutland: A Romance of the Great Sea
Fight.
The Submarine Hunters: A Story of Naval Patrol Work.
A Lively Bit of the Front: A Tale of the New Zealand
Rifles on the Western Front.
A Sub and a Submarine: The Story of H.M. Submarine
R19 in the Great War.
Under the White Ensign: A Naval Story of the Great
War.
The Dispatch-Riders: The Adventures of Two British
Motor-cyclists with the Belgian Forces.
The Sea-girt Fortress: A Story of Heligoland.
Rounding up the Raider: A Naval Story of the Great
War.
The Fight for Constantinople: A Tale of the Gallipoli
Peninsula.
Captured at Tripoli: A Tale of Adventure.
The Quest of the "Golden Hope": A Seventeenth-century
Story of Adventure.
A Lad of Grit: A Story of Restoration Times.
LONDON: BLACKIE & SON, LTD., 50 OLD BAILEY, E.C.
[Illustration: WITHOUT HESITATION WOODLEIGH LEAPED INTO THE SEA]
SEA SCOUTS ABROAD
Further Adventures of the "Olivette"
BY
PERCY F. WESTERMAN
_Illustrated by Charles Pears_
BLACKIE AND SON LIMITED
LONDON GLASGOW AND BOMBAY
Contents
CHAP.
I. AFLOAT ONCE MORE
II. STOLEN
III. A REAL GOOD TURN
IV. REPAYMENT
V. TRAPPED BY THE TIDE
VI. WHY THE WATER FAILED
VII. THE NEW HAND
VIII. THE STOWAWAY
IX. BROKEN DOWN IN MID-CHANNEL
X. ALAN SPEAKS FRENCH
XI. "WOUNDED"
XII. "IN THE DITCH"
XIII. THE BORE
XIV. THE DERELICT
XV. ALL HANDS TO THE PUMPS
XVI. THE ADVENTURES OF THE "LIBERTY MEN"
XVII. MONSIEUR RAOUL
XVIII. SHORE QUARTERS
XIX. HOMEWARD BOUND
XX. HOME WATERS AGAIN
Illustrations
WITHOUT HESITATION WOODLEIGH LEAPED INTO THE SEA
_Frontispiece_
"SCOUTS TO THE RESCUE!" SHOUTED RIVETT
THE HIGH-PRESSURE JET CAUGHT THE TENDERFOOT
FULL IN THE FACE (missing from book)
THE DERELICT (missing from book)
SEA SCOUTS ABROAD
CHAPTER I
Afloat Once More
"To-morrow the tide serves," declared Patrol Leader Peter Stratton,
stepping back a few paces in order to admire the joint handiwork of
the 1st Milford Sea Scouts. "We'll launch her while the compo's wet.
That's the right thing, I believe."
It was a blazing morning late in July. The Sea Scouts, with the best
part of seven weeks' holiday in front of them, were engaged in giving
their craft--the 54-foot motor-boat _Olivette_--a belated refit
before undertaking what Alan Hepworth described as "the stunt of
stunts".
The _Olivette_ rested in her cradle with the stern a good five yards
from high-water mark on the gently shelving patch of gravel that
constitutes the Keyhaven repairing-slip. For just over a week all
hands--namely, Patrol Leader Peter Stratton, Scouts Dick Roche, Eric
Flemming, Will Woodleigh, Reggie Warkworth, Alan Hepburn, and
Tenderfoot Phil Rayburn--had been hard at work from early morn till
dewy eve making the staunch craft look presentable and, what was
more, seaworthy, for the undertaking they had in view.
The Sea Scouts were doing the task of refitting entirely by
themselves. Mr. Armitage, their Scoutmaster, was away in Town on
business, and would not be back until the following Thursday, and it
was "up to" the lads to have the _Olivette_ afloat "all shipshape and
Bristol fashion" on his return.
Roche, Flemming, and Woodleigh had taken down the powerful 50-60
horse-power Kelvin engine, decarbonized the four cylinders, fitted
new piston rings, ground in the valves, and adjusted the tappets. At
the end of each day's work they were as black as tinkers and as jolly
as sand-boys.
Hepburn and Rayburn had been told off to clean down and revarnish the
after-cabin and paint out the fo'c'sle; Stratton and Warkworth, with
the aid of caustic soda and scrapers, had removed all the old paint
from the _Olivette's_ sides, and were on the last stages of applying
the final coat of "battleship grey" paint. Incidentally they had
liberally besprinkled themselves and their overalls with paint and
varnish, while, owing to an incautious use of caustic soda, that
powerful chemical had indelibly stained their nails a dark brown,
which were not only disfigured but positively painful.
But for the sake of the ship--their very own ship--such discomforts
counted for little: the _Olivette's_ refit was rapidly approaching
completion, and for the present nothing else mattered.
In their task of getting the boat ready for sea the Scouts received
no human aid, but they were "assisted" by a big curly-haired dog,
with a white patch on his chest, who answered to the name of Bruin.
Twelve months before, Bruin, then a mere pup, had been rescued by the
Sea Scouts of the _Olivette_ when he was in dire peril on the Buxey
Sands in the Thames estuary. He was now a powerful, wonderfully
good-tempered beast, standing nearly thirty inches high, and
combining the sagacity of a full-grown dog with the high spirits of a
puppy. Nominally Peter's dog, Bruin was the recognized mascot of the
_Olivette's_ crew. He had adopted them all. He obeyed them and no one
else. He was friendly with most human beings with whom he came in
contact, but he took it for granted that his destiny was indissolubly
associated with the blue-jerseyed, white-capped lads who formed the
1st Milford Sea Scouts.
During the present operations Bruin's activities were mainly
concerned with trotting around with paint-brushes and tools.
Somewhere in the back of his doggie brain he had the idea that these
articles were a hindrance to his youthful masters, since they were so
busy working with them that they couldn't go to sea. Consequently,
Bruin did his best to help things on by running away with
paintbrushes and tools. Whenever anything was missing, Bruin was
dubbed the culprit. In nine cases out of ten the Sea Scouts were
right, and by dint of a little tracking they discovered the dog's
cache--a hole in a cabbage-patch in the coastguards' garden.
"She looks A1," exclaimed Dick Roche, backing-up the Patrol Leader's
unspoken satisfaction. "You've put that top coat on splendidly,
Peter."
"Not so dusty," admitted the Patrol Leader modestly. "The line's a
bit wonky under the starboard quarter. That was when Bruin started
jazzing on my back; but the compo will square that off all right. How
are you getting on?"
"Finished," declared the motor expert. "The magneto's timed just a
trifle in advance. I fancy she'll do better like that."
"If she does as well as she did before, I won't complain," rejoined
Peter. "Yes, I've made a good job of those top-sides--a thundering
good job. Now, lads, we'll leave her at that. The paint will be set
hard by to-morrow, if it doesn't rain."
"I don't fancy it will," said Hepburn. "The glass is high and steady.
What's the next job, Peter?"
"Final coat of varnish on the dinghy," announced the Patrol Leader.
"Then, the last thing to-night, we'll grease the ways. That will be
enough for one day's work, I fancy."
"We'll miss you when you go, Peter, old thing," remarked Flemming.
"Yes, I'm sorry I'm leaving you all," replied Stratton. "But a fellow
can't hang on here for ever. I mean to have a jolly time before I go,
though."
At the end of August, Peter Stratton was entering the Merchant
Service as a cadet. It was mainly owing to his previous training as a
sea scout that the directors of one of the biggest steamship lines
had accepted Peter.
With the prospect of losing their present Patrol Leader the Sea
Scouts had decided to have a glorious cruise before he severed his
connection with the _Olivette_. It was an elaborate scheme. They were
to "go foreign", taking the _Olivette_ across Channel to Havre and
then up the Seine to Rouen, and possibly Paris.
Scoutmaster Armitage had readily fallen in with the idea. Not only
would the execution of it give his lads another opportunity of
seamanship in the Channel, it would afford them a chance of seeing a
country not their own--a country that, during the last few years, has
been closely united in aims and sympathies with her former enemy.
The Sea Scouts had received several letters from their Scoutmaster
during his stay in town. In them he reported progress: how that he
had already obtained the necessary charts, and had applied for
passports and other forms that had to be produced before the crew of
the _Olivette_ landed on French soil.
Already Hepburn, the Troop photographer, had been busy on this
account, taking individual photographs of each member of the
_Olivette's_ crew. True to their traditions, the Sea Scouts kept
smiling, and in the resultant prints the smiles appeared to be
grossly exaggerated. The "rogues' gallery", as Stratton termed it,
had been duly sent off to Mr. Armitage, to adorn the necessary
passports.
The _Olivette_ being ready for launching, the Sea Scouts turned their
attention to the dinghy, until the little tender glistened with
varnish and the boat-house was festooned with her various fittings
all wet with "best copal ".
"Bruin!" exclaimed Stratton, addressing the high-spirited animal.
"Get outside. You're shaking your hairs all over the varnish. And
please don't look so excited. You aren't coming this trip."
"What?" exclaimed Warkworth in dismay. "Bruin not coming? Why not,
Peter? It wouldn't be the _Olivette_ without Bruin."
"It'll have to be," retorted the Patrol Leader. "It's rough luck on
Bruin, I admit; but if we took him to France he'd have to undergo six
months' quarantine when we returned. It isn't worth it, old son, is
it?"
The "old son" looked at his master and solemnly winked one eye.
"I mean it, Bruin," continued Stratton. Bruin shut one eye again, and
went outside to think things over.
Early next morning the Sea Scouts reassembled at Keyhaven. First
high-water--for there are double tides on this part of the coast--was
at 10.15, but all preparations had to be completed well before that
time.
As the lads approached the _Olivette_ the Patrol Leader came to a
sudden stop. He wasn't smiling this time. In fact his jaw dropped
appreciably. The boat's side looked as if it had developed a marine
form of scarlet fever. It was simply peeling all over. The smooth
coat of grey, over the application of which Stratton had spent so
much time and labour, was little better than an expanse of blistering
and flaking paint.
"What's happened, Peter?" asked Hepburn. "Has someone been fooling
about in the night?"
"Goodness knows," replied the Patrol Leader. "Frost might account for
it but we don't get frosts in July. The paint hasn't taken. We'll
have to scrape it all off. And Mr. Armitage is due back to-morrow."
While the Sea Scouts were still contemplating the unaccountable
misfortune, an old man approached. They knew him very well. His name
was Boldrigg, and he was a pensioned naval seaman, who, having served
as a coastguard, had settled down at Keyhaven. He was a widower, and
had lost both his sons in the War--one a seaman gunner, in the
Jutland Battle, and the other a corporal in a line regiment,
"somewhere in France".
"Ahoy, there!" shouted the old man. "Tied up in knots about something
I'll warrant. What's adrift?"
Peter pointed to the oyster-shell markings and blisters.
"Fresh on yesterday, Mr. Boldrigg," he declared, "and look at it now.
Paint's rotten."
The ex-coastguard walked to the side of the _Olivette_ and prodded
the sticky mess with a horny finger.
"It's got to come off, anyway," he remarked apologetically, "so it
don't hurt to touch it. No, Master Stratton, 'tain't the paint that's
at fault. You've been a-usin' sooji mooji."
"Yes," admitted the Patrol Leader, glancing at his discoloured
finger-nails. "Caustic soda. We had to; the old paint was on so
hard."
"There you are; there you are!" exclaimed the old sailor, shaking his
head. "You puts on stuff to take paint off, an' expects new paint to
stick over the sooji mooji. 'Tis like destroying weeds with
weed-killer and expecting seed to grow on the same ground that's been
poisoned, so to speak."
"Then how----" began Roche.
"Half a shake, my lad," continued Boldrigg. "Live and learn. You want
to get the paint off. An old brush'll do that. Then wash your wood
down with vinegar and water to kill the caustic soda in it. When it's
dry, paint away, and you'll find that coat'll be all correct an'
above board."
All hands set briskly to work. It was one thing trying to repair a
fault for which no reason was forthcoming; another to profit by
experience, with the knowledge that the mistake could be rectified.
By eleven in the morning the _Olivette_ was once more resplendent in
a glistening garb of grey.
"We'll have to make one coat do," decided Stratton, "and whack on the
final one at the first favourable opportunity. Bruin! Come away from
that varnish. It's not treacle, old son."
"When do we launch her?" inquired Woodleigh.
"When the paint's dry," replied the Patrol Leader. "It ought to be
set by seven o'clock to-night. We might try launching her on the
evening tide. Are you all game?"
A chorus of assent greeted Stratton's suggestion.
"Right-o," continued Peter. "We've done all that is to be done for
the present."
"The ballast?" queried Hepburn.
"Is tarred and perfectly dry," replied the Patrol Leader. "But we can
stow that to-morrow. By the time we've launched the _Olivette_ we'll
have done quite enough. There are limits. Besides, we want daylight
for that job."
At eight the same evening the Sea Scouts assembled once more. It was
now about half-flood and too early for the actual launching
operations, but the lads busied themselves by getting the dinghy out
of store, greasing the ways, and in a variety of odd but necessary
tasks.
Night fell, but the moon, almost approaching its full, gave
sufficient light for the Sea Scouts to proceed with their work.
"Tide's high enough now," declared Peter, grasping a sledge-hammer.
"Start knocking out those dog-spikes, lads. Stand clear of the ways
in case she starts off unexpectedly."
"All clear this end!" announced Roche.
"Same here," added Flemming.
"Right-o," rejoined Peter.
The last restraining bond was removed, but the _Olivette_ obstinately
refused to budge an inch. Levers were brought into action without
effect. In theory the fifty-four feet of hull ought to have glided
down the greased ways in style to the accompaniment of ringing cheers
from her crew. It was, therefore, a decided "damp squib" when she
chose to remain seemingly as immovable as the pyramids of Egypt.
"Perhaps the ways have sunk," suggested Alan.
"Tide's falling," announced Roche, wiping his heated brow. "It's
dropped a couple of inches."
"We must get her off," declared Peter. He felt that it was a slur
upon his shipwright's knowledge. He had been responsible for the
construction of the ways and the hauling out of the boat. The latter
task had been performed without a hitch, and now, unaccountably, what
ought to have been a relatively easy task had proved a regular
teaser.
"I vote we borrow Dr. Mallerby's motor-jack," suggested Flemming.
"That would start her on the downward path, I think." The suggestion
was adopted, and the Sea Scouts proceeded to the doctor's house,
which was situated at the remote end of Keyhaven village.
"How many fellows do we want for the stunt?" demanded Stratton,
addressing his six companions. "Some of you ought to be standing by
the boat."
"She won't move, worse luck," commented Roche.
A knock at the door was promptly answered by the doctor in person. It
was now after eleven o'clock and the maids had gone to bed.
"Hello!" was his greeting when he recognized the Sea Scouts. "What's
the game, eh? Are you going to do your good turn for to-morrow now,
and get ahead of the clock?"
"We want you to do us a good turn, sir, if you please," said
Stratton. "Can you lend us your motor-jack?"
"Certainly," replied Dr. Mallerby. "Where's the breakdown? Here's the
key of the garage, Stratton. Take the jack, and, when you return it,
lock up and put the key through the letter-box. Good-night!"
"Why," exclaimed Roche, as the lads approached the slipway, "I do
believe she has moved."
"Yes," added Rayburn, the Tenderfoot; "she's turned round."
There was a laugh at this. The idea that the heavy boat could have
swung round seemed preposterous. But the Tenderfoot was right after
all. The _Olivette_ had unaccountably launched herself, and was now
riding to her bow-rope and the ebb tide.