"LET ME OUT, OR----"
AN hour later and the leading lights of Aberstour Harbour were
sighted at a distance of about four miles.
Brandon was now at the helm. Craddock was on deck for'ard thinking
deeply. The rest of the Sea Scouts were either in the cockpit or
seated on the cabin-top. Mr. Gregory was below making up his bunk,
for he alone of the crew was to sleep on board. The others,
according to previous arrangements, were to turn in at the Scouts'
Hall, since it was too late for them to disturb their respective
parents.
The _Puffin_ was no longer alone. Several of the Aberstour fishing
fleet were making for home in order to land their catches in time
for market. Most of the boats were fitted with motors, and those
which did not possess such a useful means of propulsion were being
towed in. Fishermen, like Scouts, are members of a brotherhood in
which Good Turns are the order of the day---and night.
Suddenly a jar shook the _Puffin_. Peter jumped up and ran aft.
"All right, you fellows!" he exclaimed and dived into the cabin.
"What was that?" inquired Mr. Gregory, still struggling with
blankets that obstinately refused to come out of a stiff kit-bag.
"Hit something, sir," replied Craddock; "bit of wreckage. I'll look
for'ard."
Lighting a hurricane lamp Peter crawled through the small sliding
doorway between the cabin and the fo'c'sle.
"I think she must have strained a plank," he reported breathlessly.
"Come and have a look, sir."
Mr. Gregory dropped the kit-bag. Peter stood aside to let him gain
the fo'c'sle.
"Can't see or hear any water coming in," said Mr. Gregory, after a
brief examination. "It must be the lap of the waves outside, or----"
The thud of the sliding door being hurriedly slammed interrupted his
words. He turned to find himself alone. Simultaneously the click of
the lock informed him the door was not only shut, but secured. He
tried the fore-hatch. Not only was it in place, but it was held down
by a strong metal bar padlocked to the deck.
"Brandon, come below a minute!" exclaimed Peter.
The Patrol-leader, alarmed by Craddock's earnest tones, handed the
tiller to Carline and gained the cabin.
"I've locked him in," announced Peter.
"What for?" demanded the perplexed Brandon.
"'Cause he's a wrong 'un," was the astonishing reply. "He's not a
Scoutmaster. He's a smuggler. That stuff we took off that boat is
cocaine. He tried to fool us with a forged letter from Mr. Grant; he
jiggered the motor so as to keep us out at sea till midnight,
and----"
"Enough of that silly joking, Craddock!" came the voice of the
prisoner through the bulkhead. "Open the door at once."
Peter made no reply.
"I couldn't warn you before, Frank," he continued, addressing the
Patrol-leader. "If I'm wrong I'll take all responsibility, anyway.
There's another thing. While we were stowing canvas he was
signalling to the strange vessel. It wasn't Morse. I could have read
it if it were, as you know, and their reply wasn't Morse either. It
was a secret code."
"For the last time, Craddock," shouted the captive angrily, "open
that door."
"Sorry, but you must stay there until we get into port," said the
Patrol-leader, answering for Peter.
"I'll give you thirty seconds," continued the Scoutmaster. "If by
that time I'm not released I'll blow the lock off. I'm armed, I
might warn you."
"Don't add attempted murder to smuggling," responded Brandon. "You
can't tackle eight of us even if you do get out."
A tremendous thudding announced that the prisoner was attempting to
push the door down with his shoulder.
"'Spose he breaks out?" asked Peter dubiously.
"I'll tackle him," replied the Patrol-leader with easy confidence.
"He daren't shoot, even if he has a revolver, and I guess I'll knock
him out if it comes to fists. Cut on deck, Peter, and take charge.
Warn the others and tell a couple of them to keep an eye on the
fore-hatch. Signal the Customs Watch-house and tell them."