ADRIFT--THEN AGROUND
"I MUST give her more chain," decided Peter, aware of a violent
hammering on the cabin doors, but paying no heed to the clamouring
of the prisoner to be let out.
It was an easy matter to cast off the turns of the chain round the
bitts. With a rush and a rattle the links ran out, until Craddock
decided that he had given enough scope.
But when it came to checking and securing the cable, well, that was
a very different matter. Vainly Peter tried to secure the rapidly
running chain, for the anchor had now obtained a firm hold. Fathom
after fathom rattled through the fairlead.
This state of things did not trouble Peter. He knew that the anchor
was holding this time, and that the inboard end of the chain was
shackled to an eyeplate in the keelson. Sooner or later the yacht
would bring up, and then he could await the return of Mr. Grant and
the rest of the Sea Scouts before attempting to move the _Puffin_
back to her former berth.
But alas for these reassuring thoughts. The yacht--eight tons dead
weight moving at a good three knots--snubbed violently. There was a
disconcerting jerk that almost threw Peter overboard, and the next
instant he caught a glimpse of the tail-end of the cable
disappearing over the bows. The violent jerk had wrenched apart the
shackle that ought to have held the chain to the eyebolt, and the
_Puffin_, unfettered, was utterly at the mercy of the tide.
Craddock kept his head. Although realising his very awkward and
possibly dangerous position he was not one to get into a state of
panic because he found himself drifting out to sea.
It was useless to hail, since there was no one on either quay. Nor
would it be of any use hoisting sails since there was not the
faintest breath of wind. The sweeps were useless against the
three-knot current. There was the motor, but in the present
circumstances it was a "broken reed."
In order to start it up it was necessary to go below to turn on the
petrol and make the usual adjustments, and the cabin through which
Peter would have to pass to gain the motor-room was in the
possession of the armed rascal who was responsible for the present
predicament.
By this time Peter was unpleasantly aware that it was still raining
in torrents and that he was without an oilskin. During the
excitement occasioned by the yacht breaking adrift he had hardly
noticed the downpour. Now that the strenuous period of activity was
over, the rain felt horribly cold as it beat down upon his
unprotected head.
"She won't drift very far," thought Craddock. "The tide doesn't run
so hard outside, and Mr. Grant ought to be back by now. He'll be
bound to see the riding-light."
"Open that door, you silly young ass!" exclaimed the imprisoned man
angrily. "A joke's a joke in a way, but this is a bit too thick."
Peter ignored the request. It recalled a very similar speech by the
bogus Scoutmaster. Apparently the man had opened the cabin scuttle
and had seen that the yacht was drifting out of the harbour.
The teak panels creaked under the pressure of his shoulders.
"Stop that!" said Peter sternly. "If you burst open those doors I'll
hit you over the head with the winch-lever."
"What for, you silly owl?" expostulated the captive. "Don't play the
fool any longer. You've lost your anchor and cable--I know that--but
the pair of us ought to be able to get the yacht back. Come on, now,
open that door."
"I will when Mr. Grant comes on board--not before," replied Craddock
resolutely. "You wait. He won't be very long."
The prisoner made no audible reply.
Peter then prepared to keep his vigil as best he could in the
uncomfortable circumstances. From the sail-locker in the cockpit he
pulled out the spitfire jib, the thick canvas of which afforded
tolerable protection from the rain. Then, gazing shorewards, he
watched the slowly receding lights of Sablesham until they were
blotted out in the watery atmosphere.
"Looks like making a night of it," he thought. "The _Puffin_ is like
a needle in a haystack in this downpour. By jove! I'd forgotten the
dinghy," he added, as the slight dipping of the yacht caused the
bowsprit-end to hit the gunwhale of her little tender.
Throwing aside the protecting sail Peter went for'ard, clambered
along the bowsprit and dropped into the dinghy. Unbending the
painter and sternfast, he brought the boat alongside and made her
fast to the yacht's shrouds. This done, he returned to the cockpit.
The cabin clock struck eight bells.
"Midnight already," thought Peter. "Wonder what Mr. Grant and the
other fellows are doing?"
He drew a mental picture of the Scoutmaster and seven drenched Sea
Scouts standing disconsolately upon the deserted quay, and
wondering where their floating home with its comfortable bunks had
gone.
A few minutes later the yacht's keel grated gently upon a gravelly
bottom. The dinghy, hitherto drifting alongside, swung round until
brought up by the full scope of the painter.
"We're aground!" exclaimed Peter, stating what was an obvious and
accomplished fact.