Read Ebook: Sea Scouts Abroad: Further Adventures of the Olivette by Westerman Percy F Percy Francis Pears Charles Illustrator

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Ebook has 927 lines and 38255 words, and 19 pages

"Then I'll come along with you," declared Boldrigg. "There's an old fowling-piece in the boat, and though it ain't a 12-pounder Q.F., I'll guess 'twill make those blokes think twice if we gets within range. All the gear's aboard, Master Peter. The lot of us'll manage to launch her down the beach."

"We'll keep well over agen the flats," said Tom. "There'll be a mort less o' tide. You say there ain't but an hour's supply of oil aboard? Well, at seven or eight knots she won't be as far up along as Cowes, and now she's got a foul tide. We'll sight her in a couple of hours, Master Peter."

Inquiries of the skipper of an eight-ton ketch yacht, abreast of Jack-in-the-Basket, resulted in the information that no motor craft had put into Lymington River since five that morning, so one possible hiding-place was eliminated.

"She might have got in through Bull Run," suggested Hepburn.

"Up centre-board. Down helm."

The boat's forefoot grounded on the shingle, Stratton and Roche jumped ashore to meet the bluejacket.

"You're looking for a motor-boat," announced the coastguard. "I had a telephone message through half an hour ago. She hasn't put into this river, and I've seen nothing answering to her description making to the east'ard."

Tom blinked his eyes as he studied the features of the coastguard.

"Can't recall your tally, mate." he replied.

"Sure I do," exclaimed Boldrigg. "But you've altered the cut of your figurehead. How's things?"

The old shipmates conversed for a few moments. Then the coastguard suggested trying the creeks on the Isle of Wight shore.

"I've had my glass on Thorness Bay and as far down as Hamstead," he added. "There's no craft up again the beach. Like as not she's pushed into Newtown."

The Scouts now re-embarked. It occurred to them that not only was the possibility of success diminishing but that they were hungry.

"We'll carry on as far as Cowes, anyway," decided Peter. "We'll make inquiries there, and buy some grub at the same time. All ready? Get her head round, Alan."

"No use carrying on." said the Patrol Leader. "We'll stand across to the opposite shore and put into Newtown for grub. A pull on that mainsheet, Dick. Sit more to windward, you fellows."

Peter was now at the helm. Old Boldrigg, having handed over the tiller, was sitting on the bottom-boards puffing contentedly at a black clay pipe.

"Look!" suddenly exclaimed Hepburn, pointing astern. "There she is."

All hands looked in the direction indicated.

The motor-boat was about a mile and a half away, but by the "bone in her teeth", as her bows cut through the choppy waves of the weather-going tide, it was evident that she was moving at full speed.

Peter knitted his brows. All the scoutcraft and seamanship at his command failed to suggest a satisfactory solution to the problem. As a preliminary he told Roche to signal to her to stop.

Even as he cudgelled his brains as to the next step, he was interrupted by Dick Roche's voice exclaiming:

"Pretty asses we look," soliloquized Peter, "getting those fellows to stop. Jolly sporting of them, though."

"What's amiss?" demanded the officer in command, as he scrambled out of the cockpit. "Joy riding and feeling sorry you came?"

"Not at all, sir," replied Peter, saluting. "We've lost a boat and she's almost exactly the same as yours."

"S'long as she isn't exactly the same I don't worry," replied the flying officer. "Come alongside and tell me all about It."

The Sea Scouts did so.

"Cast us off opposite Newtown, sir, if you please," said the Patrol Leader. "We want to see if our boat has put in there."

Inquiries at the Coastguard Station were fruitless, so, having practically cleared the little general shop of provisions, the lads reembarked, and with the last of the west-going tide managed to arrive at Keyhaven by six in the evening.

"There's Mr. Armitage and Rayburn," exclaimed Warkworth.

"No, sir," replied the Patrol Leader despondently.

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.

"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.

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