THE MYSTERIOUS VISITOR
"ONE of you fellows must remain on board as ship-keeper," decided
Scoutmaster Grant. "The unlucky one must be elected amongst
yourselves, so get busy, lads."
The _Puffin_ lay alongside the quay at Sablesham, moored fore and
aft by ropes ashore and with her anchor in the stream to prevent her
chafing against the piles.
The Sea Scouts were about to spend the evening ashore. An invitation
had been received from the Lydiard Scouts to attend a camp-fire
concert at a camp on the side of Blackbird Beacon, a lofty,
grass-covered chalk down about five miles from Sablesham Harbour.
Having told his crew to choose amongst themselves who should be
ship-keeper, Mr. Grant went ashore to visit the harbour master.
Twenty minutes later he returned to find the debatable point still
undecided. Everyone wanted to go, and each Sea Scout had half a
dozen reasons, good, bad, or indifferent, why he should _not_ be
left behind. There was no unseemly wrangle or display of bad temper;
they were simply arguing the matter out.
"What! Not settled yet?" exclaimed Mr. Grant.
"We wish you'd decide, sir," said Carline.
"Unanimous on that?" asked the Scoutmaster.
"Yes, sir," was the reply in chorus.
"Well, I'm not going to," was Mr. Grant's somewhat disconcerting
response, but there was a sly twinkle in his eyes that told the crew
pretty plainly that their Scoutmaster would speedily solve the
perplexing problem.
"You're going to choose Scout fashion. Brandon, bring me a piece of
old rope out of the junk locker, please."
The Patrol-leader brought the required article. Deliberately Mr.
Grant unlaid a portion of the rope and cut off seven pieces each
about three inches in length, and one piece an inch shorter.
"Now," he continued. "Face outward and don't look this way until I
tell you."
Obediently the crew gazed stolidly at a fishing smack moored
alongside the opposite quay, notwithstanding a strong inclination to
know what was going on behind their backs.
"Now, this way!"
The Sea Scouts faced about. On the coaming of the cockpit lay the
signal code-book, while from beneath the latter projected eight
pieces of rope each showing an equal length.
"The fellow who draws the short piece is to be ship-keeper,"
explained Mr. Grant. "Now, Symington, Talbot, Hopcroft, Carline,
Phillips, Wilson."
As each lad's name was called he drew out one of the rope-yarns.
Some chose theirs boldly, others hesitated, making several feints
before taking the plunge, especially as the number of rope-yarns
diminished without the short end coming to light.
"Now, Craddock."
Peter Craddock gave a swift glance at his comrade in the
final--Patrol-leader Brandon.
"Take the one on your left," suggested Brandon.
But Peter chose the other; it was the short end.
"Hard lines, partner!" exclaimed Brandon.
True to his principles Peter Craddock kept smiling, though it was
with envious eyes that he saw his chums "smartening-up" for their
visit to the Lydiard Scouts' camp.
"Cheerio, Peter," was Scoutmaster Grant's parting greeting. "We'll
be back about ten--half-past ten at the latest. Don't forget the
riding-lamp."
The Sea Scouts jumped ashore. Craddock watched them along the quay
and over the swing-bridge until they disappeared round the corner of
the Custom House. Then he settled down to his seven hours' "trick."
There was not much to be done or to be seen. Sablesham Harbour was
almost deserted. The fishing fleet, with a few exceptions, was out.
A couple of grimy colliers were discharging their cargo at the
gasworks. A French smack with her hold full of onions had just
arrived.
All these vessels lay along the east quay. The west quay was
untenanted with the exception of the _Puffin_, which lay about a
hundred yards inside the curved arm of the pier.
After a while Craddock retired to the cabin, and was soon deeply
engrossed in +THE SCOUT+. Tea was rather a sorry meal eaten in
solitude, but Peter, methodical in most matters, washed up and
stowed the things away.
At six o'clock, being half flood, he took in the slack of the ropes
and shifted the dinghy from alongside to under the bowsprit, so as
to be out of the way in case a clumsily-managed boat coming in
should give her a nasty "nip." This done he was free to continue
reading until sunset.
Presently he became aware of the fact that the light was fading. A
heavy patter on the coach-roof of the cabin informed him without any
doubt about the matter that it was raining.
Donning his oilskin Craddock went on deck to make sure that there
was nothing left about that might get spoilt. A glance at the sky
showed that the rain had set in for the night, although there was no
wind at all. So heavy was the downpour that the houses beyond the
opposite quay were almost invisible.
"May as well light the riding lamp while I'm about it," thought the
lad. "It's almost sunset."
The lamp, cleaned and well-trimmed, was quickly lighted and hoisted
on the fore-stay. Then going below and pulling over the
sliding-hatch, Peter prepared to make the best of things till his
comrades returned.
He rather felt like "shaking hands with himself" at the thought that
he hadn't to tramp a good five miles in the pouring rain. After all
there were worse places than a cosy and well-lighted cabin on board
a yacht snugly moored in a sheltered harbour.
"Let me see," he continued, "high water's at 8.15. No need to tend
the warps before midnight. I'll put the kettle on the stove about
nine, so that the other fellows can have something hot when they
return."
Deep in his favourite paper, Peter was unconscious of the flight of
time until the rippling of water against the yacht's bows warned him
that the tide had changed and was beginning to ebb hard. A glance at
the clock showed that it was nine o'clock.
"Below there!"
Craddock sat up with a start. Someone was hailing from the quayside.
Who could be wanting to communicate with the yacht on such a
horribly dirty night?
"Below there!" shouted the voice again.
Pushing back the sliding hatch Peter thrust head and shoulders out
into the rain and darkness. Blinded by the sudden change from the
well-lighted cabin, he could see nothing.
"Hello!" he replied. "What is it?"
"Is this the _Puffin_?" inquired the insistent voice. "Is Mr. Grant
on board?"
"No, sir," replied Craddock.
"When will he return?"
"Very soon," was the non-committal answer.
"In that case I'll come on board and wait," rejoined the stranger.
There was a heavy thud, as a pair of thick-soled boots landed on the
deck, and a burly figure, just visible in the dancing rays of the
swinging riding-light, made straight for the companion hatchway.
Peter went down the steps and stood aside. The uninvited guest's
boots clattered on the brass treads, his body enveloped in a leather
motoring coat, from which the rain water ran in rivulets. He
appeared to take up the whole width of the companion. Then, gaining
the cabin, the stranger turned. "Beastly horrible night, isn't it?"
he remarked.
He was a pleasant-faced man of about thirty. To Craddock he appeared
to resemble very strongly the confiding stranger who had "pumped"
him on Aberstour pier. He might possibly be an elder brother, and if
so was one of the gang of cocaine smugglers, the remainder of which
was doing "time" in prison.
Doubtless he had had the yacht under observation and, finding that
there was only one of the crew on board, was bent upon taking
vengeance upon the Sea Scout who had been instrumental in capturing
the self-styled Scoutmaster Gregory. Those and a score of similar
thoughts flashed across Peter's mind. He decided to act strictly
upon the defensive until Mr. Grant returned.
"Beastly horrible night, isn't it?" said the stranger again, as he
removed his dripping coat. "Do you mind?"
Peter took the proffered garment and hung it in the cupboard on the
starboard side of the companion-ladder. Then he closed the
sliding-hatch, leaving the cabin doors open.
"Now we can have a cosy chat until Mr. Grant returns," continued the
man, in no way offended by the Sea Scout's silence. "I'm anxious to
meet you Sea Scouts, I've heard quite a lot about you. You're a set
of plucky fellows."
"Are we?" said Peter cautiously.
"Aren't you?" rejoined the other, calmly seating himself on the
settee on the starboard side, and thrusting out his legs. By so
doing he had cut off Craddock's only means of getting out of the
cabin, since the fore-hatch was closed and secured on the outside.
"I suppose you had a hand in that little affair with your bogus
Scoutmaster the other day?"
Peter made no reply.
"Modest about your achievement, eh?" laughed the stranger. "Very
well, we'll change the subject. This is a fine little craft of
yours. I'm a sailing man myself, when I can spare the time. As a
matter of fact I was cruising off Aberstour about a week ago. _White
Gull_ is the name of my craft. She's about eighty tons."
"Straight-stemmed cutter, isn't she?" inquired Craddock, feeling
that he must say something.
"No, spoon bow."
"Square stern?"
"No, counter."
"Oh!" exclaimed Peter involuntarily. The particulars as supplied by
the talkative visitor coincided with those of the mysterious craft
from which the _Puffin_ had received the consignment of contraband
drugs.
At that moment a red light gleamed through the port scuttle. The
_Puffin_ lifted to a swell and ground heavily against the piles.
"Steamer coming in," remarked the stranger. "She gave us a bit of a
biff with her wash. I hope your warps are sound."
"I'll go on deck and see," said Peter eagerly.
Without waiting to put on his oilskin, Craddock nipped up the
ladder. His unwanted companion made no effort to stop him. In fact,
he moved his legs aside.
The rain was still descending in sheets. Through the mirk Craddock
could distinguish the stern light of a tramp steamer that had just
entered the harbour and was making for a berth beyond the
swing-bridge.
In vain the Sea Scout looked along the ill-lighted quay in the hope
of seeing either Mr. Grant or a policeman or even a friendly
fisherman. The idea that had flashed across his mind had taken root.
He was firmly convinced that the fellow in the cabin was there for
no good purpose.
"I'll lock him in and go ashore for help," he decided, and measured
the distance between the yacht's rail and the edge of the quay. By
this time the tide had fallen considerably and was ebbing with great
force. The coping of the masonry was a good five feet higher that
the _Puffin's_ deck.
"Don't want to find myself in the ditch," thought Peter.
Through the slightly-opened skylight he peeped cautiously into the
cabin. The stranger was in the act of transferring a revolver from
his hip-pocket to the side-pocket of his jacket.
The light of the cabin lamp glinted upon the dull steel of the
sinister weapon. That was conclusive proof of the intentions of the
fellow.
Very gently Craddock felt for the padlock and key of the companion
hatch, which when not in use hung from a hook just behind one of the
double doors. With a feeling of elation his fingers closed over the
required articles.
The next instant the doors and the sliding-hatch were closed and the
padlock slipped through the hasp that secured all three. So neatly
was the operation completed that the man in the cabin was unaware of
what had taken place. Possibly the thud of the raindrops upon the
cabin-top had deadened the sound.
"Don't stop out in the rain, boy!" he shouted.
Chuckling over the success of his plan Peter went for'ard, intending
to steady himself by the shrouds as he leapt ashore. Before he could
do so there was a loud crack that sounded to him like the report of
a pistol.
Simultaneously the quay appeared to recede from the yacht. Already
the distance between the two was too great for Craddock to leap.
Then it suddenly dawned upon him.
"The yacht's adrift!" gasped Peter.
Absolutely certain that this was part of the stranger's scheme to
smash up the Sea Scouts' yacht, Peter clambered into the bows. The
part of the grass rope secured to the bits hung limply. The _Puffin_
was swinging out with her bows pointing towards the opposite quay
and with the tide boring furiously against her port side.
Kneeling, Peter fumbled for the chain. A distinct rasping sound told
him that the anchor was playing false. Instead of holding, it was
dragging.
Then came another disconcerting sound--the splintering of wood from
right aft. The warp on the port quarter had wrenched the cleat to
which it was secured, from its fastenings.
Back swung the yacht head to tide, but the anchor still refused to
"bite." Having started to drag it continued to do so. Soon the yacht
was abreast of the pier-head and about twenty yards from it. In a
few minutes she would be swept by the surging ebb right out into the
English Channel.