A Real Good Turn
"It's been a perfectly topping day," declared Patrol Leader "Rusty"
Rivett, of the 5th Weymouth Troop. "The way you followed that trail,
Phillips, was awfully good!"
The Troop members of the junior school of Weymouth College had had a
long day's scouting. The Midsummer Term exams were over, and, as two
clear days remained before that long-anticipated event "breaking up",
the Scouts had taken advantage of the time to put in a final tracking
practice.
It was now about five in the afternoon. "Dentibus" Dence, "Boney"
Barnicott, "Mutt" Thurgood, John Phillips, "Cock Sparrow" Rogers, and
Ben Legge had rallied round their Patrol Leader, and were lying on
the grass at the edge of the cliffs between Redcliff Point and
Osmington Mills.
Upon second thoughts, it was hardly correct to say they were lying on
the grass. The Scouts knew better than to rest their heated bodies on
the turf. Each lad had under him his now empty haversack, the
generous contents of which had found other homes since the Troop had
set out from Weymouth that morning.
It was a glorious view that met their gaze. The blue waters of the
bay were ruffled by the faintest suspicion of an on-shore breeze. The
sky was cloudless, meeting the expanse of open sea in a blurred
undefined line, cut by the misty shape of the Shambles Lightship. On
their right they could see the crescent-shaped terrace comprising the
town of Melcombe Regis, and the entrance piers of Weymouth Harbour.
Beyond lay the spacious sheet of water, enclosed by Portland
Breakwater, and dotted with war-ships of all sizes, from gigantic
battleships to long, low-lying destroyers. Still farther beyond, the
gaunt outlines of Portland cut the skyline until they sloped
gradually to the famous Bill, off which the dreaded "race" was
swirling and roaring as if fretting for its prey.
"I say," remarked Dentibus, pointing seaward, "what's that boat
doing? Looks as if there's something wrong."
The others followed the direction of the extended forefinger. At
about a quarter of a mile from shore was a large, grey-painted
motor-boat being towed by two men in a dinghy. The men were straining
at the oars, but progress was slow. They were evidently not making
for Weymouth, but towards the beach immediately underneath that part
of the cliffs upon which the Scouts were lying.
"Motor broken down," observed Rusty Riven, laconically. "Wouldn't
like their job, swotting in the sun."
"Why do they want to land here?" asked Phillips. "There's no shelter
if it should come on to blow."
"Ask me another," rejoined the Patrol Leader. "Perhaps they're fed up
and are going to walk into Weymouth and get another motor-boat to tow
them in."
"Can you make out her name?" asked Ben Legge.
"Hanged if I can," replied the Patrol Leader. "There is a name on the
bows, but she's too far off to see what it is. My word, she's bigger
than I thought!"
For some moments the Scouts watched in silence the tedious progress
of the broken-down motor-boat. They could see the two rowers glancing
frequently over their shoulders, as if gauging the distance that
remained between them and the beach.
Presently the rowers found themselves on the fringe of the light
ground-swell that was breaking upon the shore. Here they lay on their
oars until the towed craft ranged up alongside the dinghy. Then,
jumping on board the motor-boat, the pair proceeded to anchor.
"Here, you fellows!" exclaimed Phillips. "She's the _Olivette_. I can
see the name distinctly now. Doesn't she belong to the Milford Sea
Scouts? We read her log last year."
"Perhaps she isn't that _Olivette_," objected Thurgood.
"She looks like the drawing in the log," persisted Phillips.
"If she is," said the Patrol Leader, "there don't appear to be any
Sea Scouts on board. You've struck a false trail, Phillips."
John wasn't at all sure that he had. Being of an observant nature,
and fairly smart at making feasible deductions, he wasn't going to
abandon his theory until he was firmly convinced that his reasoning
was at fault.
He said nothing, but thought the more. Meanwhile, one of the men had
jumped into the dinghy and was holding her alongside. The other
fellow went below, presently to reappear with a canvas sack. This he
lowered into the stern-sheets of the dinghy, and casting off the
painter, rejoined his companion.
After about twenty strokes the rower rested on his oars and said
something to his chum, who was sitting on the dinghy's transom with
his feet resting on the canvas sack. Apparently they did not like the
aspect of the surf, for the fellow aft pushed the sack under the
stroke thwart, and lowered himself on the stern bench.
With that the rower gave another glance shoreward over his shoulder,
spat on his hands, and began pulling his hardest.
The dinghy rode the breaking swell in capital style until her
forefoot touched the beach. Smartly the two men sprang out, knee deep
in water, but they were not quick enough. Before they could haul the
dinghy clear of the waves a sea poured over her quarter.
"Scouts to the rescue!" shouted Rivett.
There was no hanging back. Simultaneously the lads swung themselves
over the shelving cliff, dropping or sliding from ledge to ledge;
then, gaining the beach, they ran at top speed to the assistance of
the two strangers.
The Scouts were hardly prepared for what happened next. The two men,
after gazing dumbfoundedly for a few seconds at the apparition of
seven active youngsters racing towards them, suddenly took to their
heels and fled.
Checking his first impulse to follow in pursuit of the two men, Rusty
Rivett halted his charges. Though the running figures appealed to the
Scout's instincts much in the same way as a startled hare does to a
dog, there was, after all, no justification for the chase, since no
reason was apparent why the men should take to their heels.
"Get the boat above high-water mark," ordered the Patrol Leader. "All
hands. Never mind getting your shoes wet."
It was a strenuous task, for by this time the dinghy had filled with
water to the level of the transom. Watching their opportunity as the
waves receded, the lads tilted the boat until she was nearly empty,
and then, using the bottom boards to prevent the keel sinking in the
soft beach, they eventually hauled their prize clear of the surf.
"What's in the sack, Rusty?" asked Thurgood.
The Patrol Leader hesitated before satisfying his curiosity. It
seemed too much like meddling with someone's private property.
"Pots and pans, I think," said Barnicott, stirring the bulging sack
with his foot.
Rivett unlashed the mouth of the sack.
"I say, you fellows," he exclaimed, "this is a rummy stunt. The bag's
chockfull of silver. No wonder those blighters made themselves
scarce; they're burglars." Here was a climax to a day's scouting,
despoiling robbers of their booty. Still, the situation required
careful handling. If the Scouts left the boat unattended, the thieves
might return. If they separated forces, one party standing by while
the others tracked the rogues, either part of the divided Troop would
be insufficient to cope with two powerful and desperate men. It
seemed remarkable that the two fellows should have landed with their
booty in broad daylight instead of waiting until darkness set in.
"Any of you fellows know how to row?" he asked.
"I do," replied Phillips. "My father has a boat, and in the 'hols' I
go fishing with him."
"Good man!" exclaimed the Patrol Leader approvingly. "You and I are
going off to the motor-boat to take charge of her. Dentibus, old son,
imagine you're doing the mile in the College sports, and cut off as
hard as you can to Weymouth. Find our Scoutmaster, and tell him what
has occurred. Ask him to bring a motor-boat along to tow us into the
harbour. The others will double along to Osmington Mills and warn the
coastguard. Phillips and I will keep a sharp look-out for signals if
you have to semaphore to us. Give a hand with the dinghy first. The
silver? We'll take that on board."
The little boat was successfully launched with no other casualty than
a couple of wet shirts.
"Take care not to destroy the trail," cautioned Rusty from the
dinghy, addressing the party told off for the purpose of reporting
the incident to the coastguard.
Without much difficulty Rivett and Phillips boarded the _Olivette_.
An examination of the boat resulted in the discovery, amongst other
things, of a bundle of charts on each of which appeared the words:
"1st Milford Sea Scouts".
"You're right then, John," remarked
[Illustration: "SCOUTS TO THE RESCUE!" SHOUTED RIVETT]
Rusty. "This boat's been stolen. There's no doubt about that. It's up
to us to do the Milford chaps a good turn by taking care of the
_Olivette_ until they claim her."
Before very long a semaphore message was received from Barnicott.
"Coastguard has telephoned to Weymouth police," read the message.
"There's a boat coming this way," announced Phillips.
The Patrol Leader, who had been examining the motor, called back:
"Where from? From Weymouth?"
"No," replied the scout. "From Osmington. There are two
coastguardsmen in her."
Rusty Rivett showed no enthusiasm over the intelligence. He wanted
the rescue of the _Olivette_ to be a Scout "stunt", and he rather
resented the coastguards butting in. That meant complications.
"Cheerio, my hearty!" exclaimed one of the "Bobbies", as the
skiff-dinghy ranged alongside. "We'll relieve you. Jim, put these
Scouts ashore in our boat."
Rusty got his back up. He belied his nickname, for there was precious
little oxydization of grey matter about him.
"Thanks," he replied. "We're staying on board."
"You'll be sea-sick for a dead cert," said the coastguard
insinuatingly. "There's a bit of a lop on. Best go ashore afore you
musters your bag."
"I beg your pardon," rejoined Rusty politely, "I haven't a bag to
muster. There's a sack on board, but that's going to be handed over
to the Weymouth police."
The man began to grin at the first part of the Patrol Leader's reply,
but towards the end he looked decidedly glum. Unless he could
persuade the Scouts to leave the vessel, he and his mate were "out of
it" as far as salvage was concerned. Rusty knew that. He was
determined to do the Milford Sea Scouts a good turn, which included a
saving of money that otherwise would have to be paid to the Receiver
of Wrecks.
"You weren't born yesterday, I see," observed the coastguard
caustically.
"No," replied the Patrol Leader sweetly. "In 1906. But that's neither
here nor there, is it?"
"Are you staying on board all night?" inquired the man. "If so, like
as not this 'ere boat'll drag and come up on the beach. You'd
better----"
"Stay where I am," interrupted Rivett. "For a little while: yes. As a
matter of fact we're expecting a motor-boat from Weymouth to tow her
in."
The two coastguards, finding that the _Olivette_ was in no immediate
danger, thereupon rowed off. As they went, the Patrol Leader
overheard one remark: "There ain't no flies on that Scout, Bill.
Well, jolly good luck to him, says I."
Rusty repented his action. The whole-hearted opinion of the
bluejacket showed that he was a good sort.
"Ahoy, there!" shouted the Patrol Leader. "Come back, please."
The men backed their oars and came alongside once more.
"Thought better on it?" asked the one addressed as Bill.
"Yes, and no," replied Rusty; "Look here: you think we're after
salvage?"
"Sure," said the man.
"We're not," declared the Patrol Leader. "This boat belongs to the
Milford Sea Scouts. She was stolen; we found her, and we mean to hand
her back. Scouts do not receive rewards for doing good turns,
especially to one another. And I quite see you wanted to stand in."
"That's so, sir," agreed Bill respectfully.
"Then take charge of the bag. It's full of silver stuff, probably
stolen from somewhere. If there's a reward offered for its recovery,
the money's yours."
With many expressions of thanks the two coastguards rowed of with the
booty, and before their boat reached the beach of Osmington Mills, a
motor-boat was observed leaving Weymouth and heading for the
_Olivette_.
It was the rescue party, consisting of the Scoutmaster of the 5th
Weymouth Troop, the skipper and owner of the motor-boat, Dentibus
Dent, and two other members of the Troop, who had not taken part in
the day's operations.
"Well done, Rivett," exclaimed the Scoutmaster. "We'll take the
_Olivette_ in tow. Signal to the rest of the Troop to make their way
back to the college. Can you two fellows manage the anchor by
yourselves?"
An hour later the _Olivette_ was safely moored close to the bridge in
Weymouth Harbour. The Scoutmaster and the Patrol Leader proceeded at
once to the Post Office, where they dispatched a telegram to the
Milford Sea Scouts: "Yacht _Olivette_ here in charge of 5th Weymouth
Troop. Undamaged. Come for her at any time."