THE MIS-SPELT WORD
IT was half-past two in the morning when the _Puffin_ glided in
between the pierheads. Craddock made no attempt to steer for the
moorings. He ran the boat alongside the West Pier, the tide being
almost full.
There on the jetty was Scoutmaster Grant, together with half-a-dozen
Customs Officers and a couple of policemen.
"You got my telegram, sir?" said Peter.
"Rather," replied Mr. Grant. "It puzzled me. I know no one of the
name of Gregory."
"You will soon, sir," was the rejoinder. "We've got him safely
locked up in the fo'c'sle."
Soon the little _Puffin_ was packed. Before attempting to open the
fo'c'sle hatch the Customs Officers took possession of the letters
and parcel received from the mysterious yacht. There, sure enough,
was sufficient evidence--pure cocaine worth at least a couple of
thousand pounds.
Then the fore-hatch was uncovered.
"Come on, Mr. Gregory," exclaimed one of the Customs officials
coaxingly. "Let's have a look at you."
Gregory came out as tamely as a lamb. He was wise enough to
recognise the futility of resistance.
In a trice he was handcuffed. A deft search revealed no signs of a
firearm, nor did a subsequent examination of the fo'c'sle lead to
the discovery of a pistol.
"I must ask you two lads to come with me to the station-as a mere
matter of form," said the police-sergeant, addressing Brandon and
Craddock.
"I'll come with you," added Mr. Grant. "You others turn in as soon
as you can."
* * * *
Surrounded by his captors, the prisoner was escorted along the
almost deserted High Street, Mr. Grant and the two Sea Scouts
following at a distance. A few fishermen and market porters formed
the sightseeing part of the procession.
About a couple of hundred yards up the street was a closed-in motor
with the headlights switched on, and the engine softly "ticking
over."
Suddenly the prisoner gave a shrill whistle.
The car bounded forward, turned abruptly and fled to the
accompaniment of loud blasts on the policeman's whistle.
Then the car disappeared round a corner. A second or two later came
the sound of an appalling crash.
"Smash!" exclaimed Mr. Grant. "Run, you fellows."
The Scoutmaster and the two Sea Scouts broke into a run. As they
turned the corner they saw that the car had crashed end-on into a
stationary lorry and was already well ablaze.
Lying inertly on the pavement with his head touching the base of a
lamp-post was the luckless driver of the car, stunned and
considerably cut about the head by the broken glass of the
windscreen.
Deftly the Sea Scouts rendered First Aid, then, detaching the
tailboard of the lorry, they placed the injured man upon it and
carried him to the hospital, which was only about a hundred yards
from the scene of the accident.
Having furnished the police inspector with the required information
they accompanied Mr. Grant back to the harbour.
Day was breaking by the time the now weary-eyed but excited lads had
completed their task of mooring up their boat, and at the
Scoutmaster's invitation they went back to his house for a very
early breakfast.
"That fellow who got smashed up," said Peter during the course of
the meal, "was the one who spoke to me while I was fishing on the
pier yesterday--or, rather, the day before yesterday."
"Then that was what aroused your suspicions," remarked Mr. Grant.
Craddock shook his head.
"No, sir," he replied. "I never connected the two until an hour ago.
He pumped me properly, though. Asked particulars about you and all
that. I can see it now."
"Then what did?" persisted Mr. Grant.
"The letter, sir, that was supposed to have been written by you."
"Oh, and how's that?"
"Do you remember about a week ago, sir, when we wrote off about a
new accommodation-ladder for the _Puffin_? I spelt 'accommodation'
with one 'm' and you told me about it. Well, in that forged letter
the same word occurred and it had only one 'm.' That was enough to
start on. So I telegraphed to you. And then I just kept my eyes
open----"
"As a Sea Scout should," added Mr. Grant.
"But I can't much longer, sir," rejoined Peter with another yawn.