Sea Scouts Abroad: Further Adventures of the "Olivette"
Date: 2018-01-07T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Sea stories; Adventure stories; Sailboats -- Juvenile fiction; Sea Scouts -- Juvenile fiction

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Title: Sea Scouts Abroad: Further Adventures of the "Olivette"

Author: Percy F. Westerman

Illustrator: Charles Pears

Release date: January 7, 2018 [eBook #56325]
Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Produced by R.G.P.M. van Giesen

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SEA SCOUTS ABROAD: FURTHER ADVENTURES OF THE "OLIVETTE" ***

[Illustration: cover (front)]

[Illustration: cover (spine)]

SEA SCOUTS ABROAD

BY

PERCY F. WESTERMAN

Lieut. R.A.F.

"No boy alive will be able to peruse Mr. Westerman's pages without a quickening of his pulses."—Outlook.

The Third Officer: A Present-day Pirate Story.

Sea Scouts Abroad: Further Adventures of the Olivette.

The Salving of the "Fusi Yama": A Post-War Story of the Sea.

Sea Scouts All: How the Olivette was won.

Winning his Wings: A Story of the R.A.F.

The Thick of the Fray at Zeebrugge: April, 1918.

With Beatty off Jutland: A Romance of the Great Sea Fight.

The Submarine Hunters: A Story of Naval Patrol Work.

A Lively Bit of the Front: A Tale of the New Zealand Rifles on the Western Front.

A Sub and a Submarine: The Story of H.M. Submarine R19 in the Great War.

Under the White Ensign: A Naval Story of the Great War.

The Dispatch-Riders: The Adventures of Two British Motor-cyclists with the Belgian Forces.

The Sea-girt Fortress: A Story of Heligoland.

Rounding up the Raider: A Naval Story of the Great War.

The Fight for Constantinople: A Tale of the Gallipoli Peninsula.

Captured at Tripoli: A Tale of Adventure.

The Quest of the "Golden Hope": A Seventeenth-century Story of Adventure.

A Lad of Grit: A Story of Restoration Times.

LONDON: BLACKIE & SON, Ltd., 50 OLD BAILEY, E.C.

[Illustration: WITHOUT HESITATION WOODLEIGH LEAPED INTO THE SEA]

SEA SCOUTS ABROAD

Further Adventures of the "Olivette"

BY

PERCY F. WESTERMAN

Illustrated by Charles Pears

BLACKIE AND SON LIMITED
LONDON GLASGOW AND BOMBAY

Contents

CHAP. |
I. | Afloat once More
II. | Stolen
III. | A Real Good Turn
IV. | Repayment
V. | Trapped by the Tide
VI. | Why the Water Failed
VII. | The New Hand
VIII. | The Stowaway
IX. | Broken Down in Mid-Channel
X. | Alan Speaks French
XI. | "Wounded"
XII. | "In the Ditch"
XIII. | The Bore
XIV. | The Derelict
XV. | All Hands to the Pumps
XVI. | The Adventures of the "Liberty Men"
XVII. | Monsieur Raoul
XVIII. | Shore Quarters
XIX. | Homeward Bound
XX. | Home Waters Again

Illustrations

Without hesitation Woodleigh leaped into the Sea
Frontispiece

"Scouts to the rescue!" shouted Rivett

The high-pressure Jet caught the Tenderfoot full in the Face
(missing from book)

The Derelict(missing from book)

SEA SCOUTS ABROAD

CHAPTER I

Afloat Once More

"To-morrow the tide serves," declared Patrol Leader Peter Stratton, stepping back a few paces in order to admire the joint handiwork of the 1st Milford Sea Scouts. "We'll launch her while the compo's wet. That's the right thing, I believe."

It was a blazing morning late in July. The Sea Scouts, with the best part of seven weeks' holiday in front of them, were engaged in giving their craft—the 54-foot motor-boat Olivette—a belated refit before undertaking what Alan Hepworth described as "the stunt of stunts".

The Olivette rested in her cradle with the stern a good five yards from high-water mark on the gently shelving patch of gravel that constitutes the Keyhaven repairing-slip. For just over a week all hands—namely, Patrol Leader Peter Stratton, Scouts Dick Roche, Eric Flemming, Will Woodleigh, Reggie Warkworth, Alan Hepburn, and Tenderfoot Phil Rayburn—had been hard at work from early morn till dewy eve making the staunch craft look presentable and, what was more, seaworthy, for the undertaking they had in view.

The Sea Scouts were doing the task of refitting entirely by themselves. Mr. Armitage, their Scoutmaster, was away in Town on business, and would not be back until the following Thursday, and it was "up to" the lads to have the Olivette afloat "all shipshape and Bristol fashion" on his return.

Roche, Flemming, and Woodleigh had taken down the powerful 50-60 horse-power Kelvin engine, decarbonized the four cylinders, fitted new piston rings, ground in the valves, and adjusted the tappets. At the end of each day's work they were as black as tinkers and as jolly as sand-boys.

Hepburn and Rayburn had been told off to clean down and revarnish the after-cabin and paint out the fo'c'sle; Stratton and Warkworth, with the aid of caustic soda and scrapers, had removed all the old paint from the Olivette's sides, and were on the last stages of applying the final coat of "battleship grey" paint. Incidentally they had liberally besprinkled themselves and their overalls with paint and varnish, while, owing to an incautious use of caustic soda, that powerful chemical had indelibly stained their nails a dark brown, which were not only disfigured but positively painful.

But for the sake of the ship—their very own ship—such discomforts counted for little: the Olivette's refit was rapidly approaching completion, and for the present nothing else mattered.

In their task of getting the boat ready for sea the Scouts received no human aid, but they were "assisted" by a big curly-haired dog, with a white patch on his chest, who answered to the name of Bruin.

Twelve months before, Bruin, then a mere pup, had been rescued by the Sea Scouts of the Olivette when he was in dire peril on the Buxey Sands in the Thames estuary. He was now a powerful, wonderfully good-tempered beast, standing nearly thirty inches high, and combining the sagacity of a full-grown dog with the high spirits of a puppy. Nominally Peter's dog, Bruin was the recognized mascot of the Olivette's crew. He had adopted them all. He obeyed them and no one else. He was friendly with most human beings with whom he came in contact, but he took it for granted that his destiny was indissolubly associated with the blue-jerseyed, white-capped lads who formed the 1st Milford Sea Scouts.

During the present operations Bruin's activities were mainly concerned with trotting around with paint-brushes and tools. Somewhere in the back of his doggie brain he had the idea that these articles were a hindrance to his youthful masters, since they were so busy working with them that they couldn't go to sea. Consequently, Bruin did his best to help things on by running away with paintbrushes and tools. Whenever anything was missing, Bruin was dubbed the culprit. In nine cases out of ten the Sea Scouts were right, and by dint of a little tracking they discovered the dog's cache—a hole in a cabbage-patch in the coastguards' garden.

"She looks A1," exclaimed Dick Roche, backing-up the Patrol Leader's unspoken satisfaction. "You've put that top coat on splendidly, Peter."

"Not so dusty," admitted the Patrol Leader modestly. "The line's a bit wonky under the starboard quarter. That was when Bruin started jazzing on my back; but the compo will square that off all right. How are you getting on?"

"Finished," declared the motor expert. "The magneto's timed just a trifle in advance. I fancy she'll do better like that."

"If she does as well as she did before, I won't complain," rejoined Peter. "Yes, I've made a good job of those top-sides—a thundering good job. Now, lads, we'll leave her at that. The paint will be set hard by to-morrow, if it doesn't rain."

"I don't fancy it will," said Hepburn. "The glass is high and steady. What's the next job, Peter?"

"Final coat of varnish on the dinghy," announced the Patrol Leader. "Then, the last thing to-night, we'll grease the ways. That will be enough for one day's work, I fancy."

"We'll miss you when you go, Peter, old thing," remarked Flemming.

"Yes, I'm sorry I'm leaving you all," replied Stratton. "But a fellow can't hang on here for ever. I mean to have a jolly time before I go, though."

At the end of August, Peter Stratton was entering the Merchant Service as a cadet. It was mainly owing to his previous training as a sea scout that the directors of one of the biggest steamship lines had accepted Peter.

With the prospect of losing their present Patrol Leader the Sea Scouts had decided to have a glorious cruise before he severed his connection with the Olivette. It was an elaborate scheme. They were to "go foreign", taking the Olivette across Channel to Havre and then up the Seine to Rouen, and possibly Paris.

Scoutmaster Armitage had readily fallen in with the idea. Not only would the execution of it give his lads another opportunity of seamanship in the Channel, it would afford them a chance of seeing a country not their own—a country that, during the last few years, has been closely united in aims and sympathies with her former enemy.

The Sea Scouts had received several letters from their Scoutmaster during his stay in town. In them he reported progress: how that he had already obtained the necessary charts, and had applied for passports and other forms that had to be produced before the crew of the Olivette landed on French soil.

Already Hepburn, the Troop photographer, had been busy on this account, taking individual photographs of each member of the Olivette's crew. True to their traditions, the Sea Scouts kept smiling, and in the resultant prints the smiles appeared to be grossly exaggerated. The "rogues' gallery", as Stratton termed it, had been duly sent off to Mr. Armitage, to adorn the necessary passports.

The Olivette being ready for launching, the Sea Scouts turned their attention to the dinghy, until the little tender glistened with varnish and the boat-house was festooned with her various fittings all wet with "best copal ".

"Bruin!" exclaimed Stratton, addressing the high-spirited animal. "Get outside. You're shaking your hairs all over the varnish. And please don't look so excited. You aren't coming this trip."

"What?" exclaimed Warkworth in dismay. "Bruin not coming? Why not, Peter? It wouldn't be the Olivette without Bruin."

"It'll have to be," retorted the Patrol Leader. "It's rough luck on Bruin, I admit; but if we took him to France he'd have to undergo six months' quarantine when we returned. It isn't worth it, old son, is it?"

The "old son" looked at his master and solemnly winked one eye.

"I mean it, Bruin," continued Stratton. Bruin shut one eye again, and went outside to think things over.

Early next morning the Sea Scouts reassembled at Keyhaven. First high-water—for there are double tides on this part of the coast—was at 10.15, but all preparations had to be completed well before that time.

As the lads approached the Olivette the Patrol Leader came to a sudden stop. He wasn't smiling this time. In fact his jaw dropped appreciably. The boat's side looked as if it had developed a marine form of scarlet fever. It was simply peeling all over. The smooth coat of grey, over the application of which Stratton had spent so much time and labour, was little better than an expanse of blistering and flaking paint.

"What's happened, Peter?" asked Hepburn. "Has someone been fooling about in the night?"

"Goodness knows," replied the Patrol Leader. "Frost might account for it but we don't get frosts in July. The paint hasn't taken. We'll have to scrape it all off. And Mr. Armitage is due back to-morrow."

While the Sea Scouts were still contemplating the unaccountable misfortune, an old man approached. They knew him very well. His name was Boldrigg, and he was a pensioned naval seaman, who, having served as a coastguard, had settled down at Keyhaven. He was a widower, and had lost both his sons in the War—one a seaman gunner, in the Jutland Battle, and the other a corporal in a line regiment, "somewhere in France".

"Ahoy, there!" shouted the old man. "Tied up in knots about something I'll warrant. What's adrift?"

Peter pointed to the oyster-shell markings and blisters.

"Fresh on yesterday, Mr. Boldrigg," he declared, "and look at it now. Paint's rotten."

The ex-coastguard walked to the side of the Olivette and prodded the sticky mess with a horny finger.

"It's got to come off, anyway," he remarked apologetically, "so it don't hurt to touch it. No, Master Stratton, 'tain't the paint that's at fault. You've been a-usin' sooji mooji."

"Yes," admitted the Patrol Leader, glancing at his discoloured finger-nails. "Caustic soda. We had to; the old paint was on so hard."

"There you are; there you are!" exclaimed the old sailor, shaking his head. "You puts on stuff to take paint off, an' expects new paint to stick over the sooji mooji. 'Tis like destroying weeds with weed-killer and expecting seed to grow on the same ground that's been poisoned, so to speak."

"Then how——" began Roche.

"Half a shake, my lad," continued Boldrigg. "Live and learn. You want to get the paint off. An old brush'll do that. Then wash your wood down with vinegar and water to kill the caustic soda in it. When it's dry, paint away, and you'll find that coat'll be all correct an' above board."

All hands set briskly to work. It was one thing trying to repair a fault for which no reason was forthcoming; another to profit by experience, with the knowledge that the mistake could be rectified. By eleven in the morning the Olivette was once more resplendent in a glistening garb of grey.

"We'll have to make one coat do," decided Stratton, "and whack on the final one at the first favourable opportunity. Bruin! Come away from that varnish. It's not treacle, old son."

"When do we launch her?" inquired Woodleigh.

"When the paint's dry," replied the Patrol Leader. "It ought to be set by seven o'clock to-night. We might try launching her on the evening tide. Are you all game?"

A chorus of assent greeted Stratton's suggestion.

"Right-o," continued Peter. "We've done all that is to be done for the present."

"The ballast?" queried Hepburn.

"Is tarred and perfectly dry," replied the Patrol Leader. "But we can stow that to-morrow. By the time we've launched the Olivette we'll have done quite enough. There are limits. Besides, we want daylight for that job."

At eight the same evening the Sea Scouts assembled once more. It was now about half-flood and too early for the actual launching operations, but the lads busied themselves by getting the dinghy out of store, greasing the ways, and in a variety of odd but necessary tasks.

Night fell, but the moon, almost approaching its full, gave sufficient light for the Sea Scouts to proceed with their work.

"Tide's high enough now," declared Peter, grasping a sledge-hammer. "Start knocking out those dog-spikes, lads. Stand clear of the ways in case she starts off unexpectedly."

"All clear this end!" announced Roche.

"Same here," added Flemming.

"Right-o," rejoined Peter.

The last restraining bond was removed, but the Olivette obstinately refused to budge an inch. Levers were brought into action without effect. In theory the fifty-four feet of hull ought to have glided down the greased ways in style to the accompaniment of ringing cheers from her crew. It was, therefore, a decided "damp squib" when she chose to remain seemingly as immovable as the pyramids of Egypt.

"Perhaps the ways have sunk," suggested Alan.

"Tide's falling," announced Roche, wiping his heated brow. "It's dropped a couple of inches."

"We must get her off," declared Peter. He felt that it was a slur upon his shipwright's knowledge. He had been responsible for the construction of the ways and the hauling out of the boat. The latter task had been performed without a hitch, and now, unaccountably, what ought to have been a relatively easy task had proved a regular teaser.

"I vote we borrow Dr. Mallerby's motor-jack," suggested Flemming. "That would start her on the downward path, I think." The suggestion was adopted, and the Sea Scouts proceeded to the doctor's house, which was situated at the remote end of Keyhaven village.

"How many fellows do we want for the stunt?" demanded Stratton, addressing his six companions. "Some of you ought to be standing by the boat."

"She won't move, worse luck," commented Roche.

A knock at the door was promptly answered by the doctor in person. It was now after eleven o'clock and the maids had gone to bed.

"Hello!" was his greeting when he recognized the Sea Scouts. "What's the game, eh? Are you going to do your good turn for to-morrow now, and get ahead of the clock?"

"We want you to do us a good turn, sir, if you please," said Stratton. "Can you lend us your motor-jack?"

"Certainly," replied Dr. Mallerby. "Where's the breakdown? Here's the key of the garage, Stratton. Take the jack, and, when you return it, lock up and put the key through the letter-box. Good-night!"

"Why," exclaimed Roche, as the lads approached the slipway, "I do believe she has moved."

"Yes," added Rayburn, the Tenderfoot; "she's turned round."

There was a laugh at this. The idea that the heavy boat could have swung round seemed preposterous. But the Tenderfoot was right after all. The Olivette had unaccountably launched herself, and was now riding to her bow-rope and the ebb tide.

CHAPTER II

Stolen

"Well, I'm blest! How did that happen? Quick with the dinghy, lads. No, Bruin, you stop there. It's much too late for little dogs to go afloat."

Four of the Sea Scouts manned the dinghy and pushed off to the Olivette. The bow-rope was cast off from the shore and made fast through the dinghy's stern ring-bolt to the transom. Then, with the gentle tide, the lads towed the Olivette to her moorings.

"Not such a bad day's work after all," commented Stratton after they had rowed back to the beach and taken the unnecessary jack back to the garage. "Ten o'clock to-morrow will be early enough. It's no use burning the candle at both ends."

Bidding his companions good-night, Peter whistled to Bruin and walked briskly home. His house lay half a mile inland from Milford-on-Sea, and to reach it he had to cut across a field, rejoining a main road within a few yards of the old church.

It was now past midnight, but the crew of the Olivette had told their people that they would be late home, and, being used to sea and ships, and knowing how dependent seafarers are upon the tide, the lads' parents realized the necessity for late hours on this occasion.

Peter had just cleared the stile when he noticed two men approaching. The moon was behind a cloud, but there was sufficient light to enable him to see that they were two strangers, and apparently fisherfolk. They were wearing jerseys, grey trousers, and canvas shoes. Slung over their shoulders were their pilot coats and sea boots, while one man carried a large canvas sack and was grumbling about its weight.

"Good night!" said the Patrol Leader, but the men passed him by in silence.

"Surly blighters," soliloquized Peter. "Wonder what they're doing this time of night. Fishermen from 'up along' most likely, who've had to wait for a fair tide back."

A few minutes later Peter was sleeping the sleep of healthy exhaustion, nor did he wake until eight o'clock next morning, when he was roused by his father announcing that Tom Boldrigg was waiting to speak to him.

"It's about the Olivette, Peter," added Mr. Stratton.

Hastily throwing on his clothes, the Patrol Leader went downstairs.

"Good morning, Mr. Boldrigg," he said.

"Good morning, Master Peter," rejoined the ex-coastguardsman, getting to the point at once. "Do you know that craft of yours ain't on her moorings?"

"No!" replied the astonished Peter. "She was there all right last night, and I made sure the bridle of the moorings was firmly secured to the bitts."

"Well, she ain't there now anyway," declared Boldrigg. "I was up and about at seven, and I believe I seed her making up t'east'ard, but my eyes ain't what they used to be, not by a long chalk. I went up to the station to borrow a glass, but all the men are away on manoeuvres. There's not a gobby in the place. So I came to see you, an' I've passed the word on to Master Roche an' Master Flemming, and told them to warn their opposite numbers."

"Then she's been stolen?"

The old man nodded.

"Seems like it, Master Peter. 'Tain't the first time a craft's been pinched. I calls to mind when I were stationed at Pitt's Deep, back in '97. But I'll spin that yarn another time. What are you going to do, Master Peter?"

"I don't know yet," answered the Patrol Leader. He was thinking hard. It seemed to him that the best step was to telephone to the various coastguard stations in Hampshire and the Isle of Wight. Several of the smaller and less important ones were temporarily closed down, but there would almost certainly be men on duty in the large ones.

"I'll run as hard as I can down to Keyhaven," he continued—"if you wouldn't mind my hurrying on, Mr. Boldrigg," he added apologetically.

Peter Stratton took to his heels, Bruin running with him, barking excitedly as if in his doggy mind he realized that something of extreme moment was troubling his young master.

Arriving at Keyhaven, the Patrol Leader found that Roche, Flemming, Woodleigh, and Warkworth were already there.

"I've telephoned through to Lymington, Peter," reported Roche. "The Olivette can't be very far away. Her paraffin tank's empty, and there's only enough petrol for an hour's run."

"Then," added Peter, with fierce determination, "we'll go after her in the dinghy."

"Dinghy's gone too," declared Flemming. "Two men collared her. I followed the track of her keel-band; two men with rubber boots, size tens, with lozenge-pattern-stamped soles."

Just then Alan and Rayburn joined the others, while down the road old Boldrigg could be seen moving at a smart pace.

"Mr. Boldrigg," hailed Peter, "may we borrow your boat?"

"Sure, certain," shouted the old seaman. "Take her. What be you goin' to do?"

"Stand in pursuit," explained the Patrol Leader, when Boldrigg, breathless with his exertions, gained the shore. "They've only enough petrol for an hour's run. If they stop in mid-Solent, the west-going tide will sweep them back, and we'll nab them."

"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."

The Mudlark was a decrepit old tub. Tom Boldrigg, although he had been pensioned for a good number of years, had not arrived at that stage when "there shall be no more sea". The boat was a centre-board, flat-floored craft about twenty feet in length, decked in for'ard and with a "fish-tray" aft. She was a suitable craft for running over the flats and working the small unbeaconed creeks on the Hampshire shore; but only in fine weather was she fit for the strong tides of the Solent.

Willing hands hauled the Mudlark down the beach. The mast was stepped and the tan sprit-sail set. Into the boat crowded the six Sea Scouts, with old Boldrigg at the helm. The Tenderfoot was left behind. The fact that none of the crew had had breakfast passed unnoticed in the excitement, but would be realized later, as would also the mistake of omitting to provision and water the little craft.

"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."

Stratton and the other Sea Scouts were equally sanguine. From experience they knew the helplessness of the Olivette when deprived of motor power. There were no sweeps on board, and she carried no canvas. The only means of propulsion would be by towing her from the dinghy, and it would take a terrific amount of energy in that direction to move her through the water at a mile an hour.

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.

With the sail drawing steadily, the Mudlark slipped rapidly over the tide, keeping close to the fringe of mud-banks on the northern shore of the Solent. Pitt's Deep, open to full view, was a blank. So was the long expanse of shore between it and the entrance to Beaulieu River.

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

"Might," agreed Peter, "but it would take a fellow jolly well acquainted with the place to get the Olivette through. We'll try it and see."

Close hauled on the port tack, the Mudlark skimmed through the narrow channel that affords a short but intricate cut into one of the most picturesque creeks on the south coast. As the boat passed one of the numerous "hards", the crew noticed a coastguardsman running towards them.

"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."

Then, catching sight of old Boldrigg, he shouted: "Hello, chum. What ship now? Bit of a change from the old Polyandra."

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

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

"Not Tubby Young, boy 1st class aboard the old Polyandra back in 'nought nine, an' you chief bos'un's mate?"

"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."

It was a long business stemming the now fierce tide. Half-way across the Island shore they spoke a coaster anchored while waiting for a fair tide. From her master they learnt that there had been someone on deck since sunrise, and certainly no motor-boat answering to Olivette's description had passed between Egypt Point and Stone Point.

"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.

"Yes," agreed Peter, after a lengthy survey. "It's the Olivette right enough, and under power, too."

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.

That rather upset the Sea Scouts' calculations. A man and six strong, healthy boys, backing their arguments with a shot gun, could compel the unlawful crew of the Olivette to surrender if the boat were motionless. It would be an entirely different proposition to hold her up when she was forging ahead at eight knots. The Olivette could run down the Mudlark, or else turn away and leave her hopelessly astern.

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:

"She's not the Olivette after all. There's a number painted on her bows."

In a moment or so there was no doubt about it. The on-coming vessel was identical in design, colour, and size with the Olivette, so that the mistake was pardonable. There was a difference: on each bow she bore the legend "R.A.F. No. 5", while her crew were rigged out in the characteristic blue uniform of the Royal Air Force.

The motor-boat headed towards the Mudlark, slowed down, and reversed engines.

"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.

"All right," continued the officer. "If we spot the Olivette we know what to do. There were about a dozen boats of this class built during the war, and no doubt yours was one of them. We're off to Studland Bay to pick up a derelict flying-boat and are taking her back to Calshot. Throw us your painter. We'll tow you back to Hurst."

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

It did not take No. 5 long to arrive at the black buoy marking the entrance to the complicated, five-armed estuary known as Newtown River. Here the Mudlark was cast off; sail was hoisted and with a beam wind the Sea Scouts were quickly within the entrance.

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.

The Scoutmaster and the Tenderfoot were waiting at the edge of the quay. Judging by the expression upon his face, Mr. Armitage showed no concern over the obvious fact that the crew of the Olivette had returned without bringing with them the missing craft.

"Good evening, boys!" he exclaimed when the Mudlark came within easy hailing distance. "Any clues?"

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

In present circumstances Stratton felt it a matter of impossibility conscientiously to carry out the Scout maxim, "Keep smiling". It simply couldn't be done. Dead tired with their long exertions, and dispirited at their utter failure to find a trace of the stolen Olivette, the crew could not raise as much as a suspicion of a smile.

"Buck up, you fellows," exclaimed Mr. Armitage, holding aloft a buff-coloured envelope. "I've just received a wire. The Olivette is safe and sound and in good hands!"

CHAPTER III

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.

"Here, you fellows!" exclaimed Phillips. "She's the Olivette. I can see the name distinctly now. Doesn't she belong to the Milford Sea Scouts? We read her log last year."

"Perhaps she isn't that Olivette," objected Thurgood.

"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.

The dinghy rode the breaking swell in capital style until her forefoot touched the beach. Smartly the two men sprang out, knee deep in water, but they were not quick enough. Before they could haul the dinghy clear of the waves a sea poured over her quarter.

"Scouts to the rescue!" shouted Rivett.

There was no hanging back. Simultaneously the lads swung themselves over the shelving cliff, dropping or sliding from ledge to ledge; then, gaining the beach, they ran at top speed to the assistance of the two strangers.

The Scouts were hardly prepared for what happened next. The two men, after gazing dumbfoundedly for a few seconds at the apparition of seven active youngsters racing towards them, suddenly took to their heels and fled.

Checking his first impulse to follow in pursuit of the two men, Rusty Rivett halted his charges. Though the running figures appealed to the Scout's instincts much in the same way as a startled hare does to a dog, there was, after all, no justification for the chase, since no reason was apparent why the men should take to their heels.

"Get the boat above high-water mark," ordered the Patrol Leader. "All hands. Never mind getting your shoes wet."

It was a strenuous task, for by this time the dinghy had filled with water to the level of the transom. Watching their opportunity as the waves receded, the lads tilted the boat until she was nearly empty, and then, using the bottom boards to prevent the keel sinking in the soft beach, they eventually hauled their prize clear of the surf.

"What's in the sack, Rusty?" asked Thurgood.

The Patrol Leader hesitated before satisfying his curiosity. It seemed too much like meddling with someone's private property.

"Pots and pans, I think," said Barnicott, stirring the bulging sack with his foot.

Rivett unlashed the mouth of the sack.

"I say, you fellows," he exclaimed, "this is a rummy stunt. The bag's chockfull of silver. No wonder those blighters made themselves scarce; they're burglars." Here was a climax to a day's scouting, despoiling robbers of their booty. Still, the situation required careful handling. If the Scouts left the boat unattended, the thieves might return. If they separated forces, one party standing by while the others tracked the rogues, either part of the divided Troop would be insufficient to cope with two powerful and desperate men. It seemed remarkable that the two fellows should have landed with their booty in broad daylight instead of waiting until darkness set in.

"Any of you fellows know how to row?" he asked.

"I do," replied Phillips. "My father has a boat, and in the 'hols' I go fishing with him."

"Good man!" exclaimed the Patrol Leader approvingly. "You and I are going off to the motor-boat to take charge of her. Dentibus, old son, imagine you're doing the mile in the College sports, and cut off as hard as you can to Weymouth. Find our Scoutmaster, and tell him what has occurred. Ask him to bring a motor-boat along to tow us into the harbour. The others will double along to Osmington Mills and warn the coastguard. Phillips and I will keep a sharp look-out for signals if you have to semaphore to us. Give a hand with the dinghy first. The silver? We'll take that on board."

The little boat was successfully launched with no other casualty than a couple of wet shirts.

"Take care not to destroy the trail," cautioned Rusty from the dinghy, addressing the party told off for the purpose of reporting the incident to the coastguard.

Without much difficulty Rivett and Phillips boarded the Olivette. An examination of the boat resulted in the discovery, amongst other things, of a bundle of charts on each of which appeared the words: "1st Milford Sea Scouts".

"You're right then, John," remarked

[Illustration: "SCOUTS TO THE RESCUE!" SHOUTED RIVETT]

Rusty. "This boat's been stolen. There's no doubt about that. It's up to us to do the Milford chaps a good turn by taking care of the Olivette until they claim her."

Before very long a semaphore message was received from Barnicott.

"Coastguard has telephoned to Weymouth police," read the message.

"There's a boat coming this way," announced Phillips.

The Patrol Leader, who had been examining the motor, called back:

"Where from? From Weymouth?"

"No," replied the scout. "From Osmington. There are two coastguardsmen in her."

Rusty Rivett showed no enthusiasm over the intelligence. He wanted the rescue of the Olivette to be a Scout "stunt", and he rather resented the coastguards butting in. That meant complications.

"Cheerio, my hearty!" exclaimed one of the "Bobbies", as the skiff-dinghy ranged alongside. "We'll relieve you. Jim, put these Scouts ashore in our boat."

Rusty got his back up. He belied his nickname, for there was precious little oxydization of grey matter about him.

"Thanks," he replied. "We're staying on board."

"You'll be sea-sick for a dead cert," said the coastguard insinuatingly. "There's a bit of a lop on. Best go ashore afore you musters your bag."

"I beg your pardon," rejoined Rusty politely, "I haven't a bag to muster. There's a sack on board, but that's going to be handed over to the Weymouth police."

The man began to grin at the first part of the Patrol Leader's reply, but towards the end he looked decidedly glum. Unless he could persuade the Scouts to leave the vessel, he and his mate were "out of it" as far as salvage was concerned. Rusty knew that. He was determined to do the Milford Sea Scouts a good turn, which included a saving of money that otherwise would have to be paid to the Receiver of Wrecks.

"You weren't born yesterday, I see," observed the coastguard caustically.

"No," replied the Patrol Leader sweetly. "In 1906. But that's neither here nor there, is it?"

"Are you staying on board all night?" inquired the man. "If so, like as not this 'ere boat'll drag and come up on the beach. You'd better——"

"Stay where I am," interrupted Rivett. "For a little while: yes. As a matter of fact we're expecting a motor-boat from Weymouth to tow her in."

The two coastguards, finding that the Olivette was in no immediate danger, thereupon rowed off. As they went, the Patrol Leader overheard one remark: "There ain't no flies on that Scout, Bill. Well, jolly good luck to him, says I."

Rusty repented his action. The whole-hearted opinion of the bluejacket showed that he was a good sort.

"Ahoy, there!" shouted the Patrol Leader. "Come back, please."

The men backed their oars and came alongside once more.

"Thought better on it?" asked the one addressed as Bill.

"Yes, and no," replied Rusty; "Look here: you think we're after salvage?"

"Sure," said the man.

"We're not," declared the Patrol Leader. "This boat belongs to the Milford Sea Scouts. She was stolen; we found her, and we mean to hand her back. Scouts do not receive rewards for doing good turns, especially to one another. And I quite see you wanted to stand in."

"That's so, sir," agreed Bill respectfully.

"Then take charge of the bag. It's full of silver stuff, probably stolen from somewhere. If there's a reward offered for its recovery, the money's yours."

With many expressions of thanks the two coastguards rowed of with the booty, and before their boat reached the beach of Osmington Mills, a motor-boat was observed leaving Weymouth and heading for the Olivette.

It was the rescue party, consisting of the Scoutmaster of the 5th Weymouth Troop, the skipper and owner of the motor-boat, Dentibus Dent, and two other members of the Troop, who had not taken part in the day's operations.

"Well done, Rivett," exclaimed the Scoutmaster. "We'll take the Olivette in tow. Signal to the rest of the Troop to make their way back to the college. Can you two fellows manage the anchor by yourselves?"

An hour later the Olivette was safely moored close to the bridge in Weymouth Harbour. The Scoutmaster and the Patrol Leader proceeded at once to the Post Office, where they dispatched a telegram to the Milford Sea Scouts: "Yacht Olivette here in charge of 5th Weymouth Troop. Undamaged. Come for her at any time."

CHAPTER IV

Repayment

This was the reassuring message that Mr. Armitage read. It had a great effect upon the hitherto tired, jaded, and dispirited Sea Scouts. Smiles came back to their bronzed features, and the disappointing cruise in the Mudlark in search of the Olivette was almost forgotten.

"The police have been active too," said Mr. Armitage. "There's been a burglary at Hordle, and a quantity of valuable silver plate stolen. The theory is that the burglars found their way to Keyhaven and embarked on the Olivette with the swag. There's a reward of fifty pounds for the recovery of the missing property."

"I met a couple of fellows about midnight, sir," reported Stratton. "They were carrying a heavy sack, and didn't answer when I said 'Good-night!' Of course, the idea never entered my head that they were going to steal the Olivette."

"And they went westward," added Hepburn. "All the time we thought they were making for Cowes or Southampton."

"Perhaps they started in that direction purposely to deceive anyone on the look-out on shore," suggested Mr. Armitage. "If the morning were at all misty here (it was at Southampton when I came through by train) they might easily slip over to the Isle of Wight shore and through the Needles Channel."

"What puzzles me," remarked Roche, "is how they got so far with no paraffin and only a gallon or so of petrol on board."

"That is an interesting point," agreed the Scoutmaster. "No doubt we'll find out more about it later on. Now the best thing you can do is to turn in and make up arrears of sleep, because to-morrow we journey to Weymouth to bring the truant home."

At seven the following morning the Sea Scouts assembled for their long march to the railway station. Each lad carried a couple of blankets, toilet requisites, and a well-filled haversack. Somewhere in the vicinity, but making his presence as inconspicuous as possible, was Bruin. The dog, with that unerring instinct which animals possess, knew that something was on the cards, and he didn't mean to be out of it if he could help it.

Peter had left him at home in spite of the pleading look in the animal's eyes, but had not been gone five minutes before the dog succeeded in making his way upstairs and jumping through an open window on to the veranda. The ensuing eight-feet drop was nothing to him. He alighted on the ground, and was off like a young tornado, in spite of the admonition of Peter's mother to "come back like a good doggie".

Having decided that the Olivette's crew were about to travel somewhere by train, Bruin took time by the forelock and preceded the Sea Scouts to the station. Then, crouching behind a pile of luggage, he awaited developments.

Upon arriving at the station Mr. Armitage took the tickets. When the train steamed in there was a rush for seats, the Scoutmaster, Roche, Flemming, and Woodleigh finding room in one compartment, and the rest of the crew in another, which happened to be immediately in front of the guard's van.

Bruin waited. He saw the carriage door being shut, but beyond stiffening himself he made no attempt to quit his place of concealment.

The guard blew a whistle and waved a green flag.

That was what the knowing dog was waiting for. With a flying leap Bruin jumped through the open window of the compartment where Peter was, landing on the knees of the astonished Patrol Leader.

"It's too late to chuck me out now," said Bruin, in doggie language. "But, after all, you don't mind, do you?"

Peter patted the dog's head with one hand, while with the other he felt for his purse, making a mental calculation of the fare for a dog from Milton (the nearest railway station to Milford) to Weymouth.

When at length the Sea Scouts detrained at their destination, they quickly realized that they were not strangers in a strange land, for they were met by a number of Scouts, whose shoulder badges announced them as belonging to the 5th Weymouth Troop.

"Awfully good of you to take charge of the Olivette," said Mr. Armitage to the Weymouth Scoutmaster.

"Not at all," protested the other. "All in a day's work, so to speak. No; the thieves are not yet in custody, but the police have several very good clues. The rascals apparently couldn't manage the motor, or, rather, they ran short of fuel; because they hailed a motor-boat off Christchurch Head and borrowed a couple of tins of petrol. They left the compass—your compass—as a security for payment. The crew of the boat supplying the petrol read of the robbery and the disappearance of the Olivette when they returned to Poole, and they immediately reported the matter of the meeting at sea to the police."

"That solves the mystery of how they carried on so far," said Roche. "I know they had only enough petrol for about an hour's run. But our compass?"

"You'll get that back all right," declared the Weymouth Scoutmaster. "It will probably cost you the price of two tins of petrol, but it will be worth it. They left you your magneto, remember."

Scouts and Sea Scouts wended their way to the long narrow harbour. There, moored alongside a steam yacht, lay the Olivette, looking, outwardly at least, none the worse for her unauthorized jaunt.

"I've left the dinghy at the steps of the bridge," said Patrol Leader Rusty Rivett. "Sparrow Rogers is in charge of her. You are not starting away at once, I hope."

"'Fraid so," replied Patrol Leader Peter Stratton. "As soon as we take in enough paraffin for the run home. You see, we've started our hols, and we are planning a voyage across Channel. We may even get to Paris."

"How pricelessly topping!" ejaculated Rusty enviously. "It makes me wish I were a Sea Scout, although we Scouts don't have half a bad time. Sorry you can't stay, though we should have liked to show you round. But you must come to Weymouth again, and then we can give you a good time."

Peter went up to Mr. Armitage and saluted.

"Couldn't we invite the 5th Weymouth Troop for a trip, sir?" he asked. "We could land them at Lulworth on the way home."

"Certainly," was the reply. "That is, of course, if they don't mind padding the hoof from Lulworth."

The Scouts were quite enthusiastic over the proposal, while the Scoutmaster seemed quite keen to prolong his acquaintance with Mr. Armitage, for they had discovered that they had another thing in common besides Scoutcraft—both had held commissions during the war, one in the R.N.V.R., the other in the army.

The Weymouth Scouts hurried off to provide themselves with food: Roche and Flemming departed to interview a garage proprietor with a view to obtaining petrol and paraffin, while the rest of the Sea Scouts proceeded on board the Olivette to see if anything besides the compass were missing, and to clear up and snug down before their guests came off.

Just before twelve o'clock the Olivette started with her double complement on board. It was not an ideal time for a quick passage, as the tide was setting to the west'ard. Fortunately the motor started up easily, in spite of the fact that the two rascals who had stolen the boat had been too lavish in the use of lubricating oil.

"That's better than giving her too little," declared Roche the optimist. "She's running like a clock."

The day was clear and bright, with a calm sea and a hot sun shining in an unclouded sky. What little wind there was blew off the land. Provided the range of visibility held, the absence of a compass mattered but little.

The Olivette kept close inshore, so that the guests could point out the interesting features of the Dorset coast, which they knew intimately; but presently some of the Weymouth lads looked rather puzzled.

They were too polite to express their perplexity at the manoeuvres of Hepburn, who was at the helm of the Olivette.

Alan, constantly referring to the chart, was feeling none too certain of his position. He kept looking shorewards, trying to determine the various prominent objects.

Presently Phillips, who had been sitting on the coach-roof, descended into the well, made his way past the motor, and climbed upon the raised bench in the wheel-house.

"I say," he remarked, "are you taking us straight to Keyhaven?"

"Dash it all, no," replied Hepburn. "What put that idea into your head? We are going to land you at Lulworth."

"Really," rejoined John. "Do you know you are past Lulworth already?"

On deck the two Scoutmasters were enjoying the joke, although it was rather a set-back to Mr. Armitage, who had been dilating upon the youthful helmsman's skill in coastal navigation.

To them came Stratton.

"One of the Weymouth fellows says we have overrun Lulworth, sir," he reported.

"'Fraid you have," agreed Mr. Armitage. "It's over there."

He pointed over the port quarter to what appeared to be a small rift in the cliffs.

"That's Lulworth, Peter," he added.

"Why, sir," exclaimed the astonished Patrol Leader, "it's so small we couldn't possibly take the Olivette in there."

"You are not the first to make that remark," observed the Weymouth Scoutmaster. "Many yachtsmen have mistaken Mupe Bay and Worbarrow Bay for Lulworth Cove. The coastguard look-out hut on the western cliff is the best mark to distinguish it."

Meanwhile Alan had put the helm hard-a-starboard, "meeting" it when the boat's head pointed towards the entrance.

As the distance decreased, the real magnitude of the entrance became apparent. In reality, instead of being only twenty yards in width, as Peter had imagined, it was more than four times that distance. On either hand the cliffs rose sheer, with a heavy ground-swell lashing the base of the rocks.

"Keep a bit more over to the eastern side," cautioned Mr. Armitage. "Right—at that. There's plenty of water."

"Hadn't we better clear away the anchor, sir?" asked Stratton.

"Not yet," was the reply. "There'll be heaps of time when we're inside the cove. Anchor work on the foredeck with this swell on is a bit too risky, especially when it's not really necessary."

The entrance was farther away than the crew imagined, and when at length the Olivette glided into the landlocked cove, they were too busy getting ready to anchor fully to appreciate their surroundings.

"Easy.... Stop.... Touch astern!" ordered Stratton. Then, "Let go!"

The anchor plunged to the bottom of the cove, and when the disturbed sand settled, the lads could distinctly see the "hook" embedded in the ground two fathoms beneath the keel.

"I say," remarked Flemming. "We're too close inshore, aren't we?"

He pointed to a pebbly beach at the base of a frowning cliff. The rounded stones appeared to be less than fifty yards away, but presently a man walking along the shore banished the deception, for the "pebbles" were really large boulders, and the size could not be estimated with any degree of accuracy unless by comparison with the height of a known object.

"It's a place for surprises," observed the Weymouth Scoutmaster. "The stupendous cliffs destroy one's sense of proportion. As a matter of fact we are quite a hundred and fifty yards from the beach. Are you coming ashore?"

"We can spare two hours for exploration," replied Mr. Armitage. "By that time we'll pick up a fair tide round St. Alban's Head. I'm thinking of putting into Poole to-night in order to recover our compass."

Three times the dinghy ferried parties of Scouts to the beach, until the Olivette, deserted, lay rolling heavily in the sheltered basin.

"How would you like to tumble from the top of that cliff to the bottom, Rayburn?" asked Patrol Leader Rusty Rivett, addressing the Sea Scout Tenderfoot.

"Wouldn't like it at all," replied Rayburn, throwing back his head and looking upwards. "Why do you ask?"

"'Cause it's been done," replied Rivett. "A girl fell over the cliff, a height of between three hundred and four hundred feet, and landed alive at that spot where you see a notice board. The notice tells you all about it."

"Stratton's brother jumped out of a balloon over a thousand feet up," declared the Tenderfoot, not to be beaten in the anecdote line. "He fell five hundred feet before the parachute opened, didn't he Peter?"

The lads roamed over the downs surrounding the cove, and inspected the remarkable Stair Hole, where the strata shows curious "faults", the lines resembling a series of semicircles. They climbed to the look-out hut, whence by the aid of the coastguard's telescope they could see a wide expanse of cliff, terminating at the frowning headland of St. Albans; while from the elevated post the cove looked little bigger than a bath-tub, and the Olivette like a toy boat floating on it.

"Time for us to part company," announced Mr. Armitage. "You've had more than two hours."

Reluctantly the Scouts and Sea Scouts bade each other farewell. The former expressed themselves as being more than repaid for their good turn by the trip in the Olivette.

"And mind you come to Weymouth again when you have the chance," said Phillips. "Right-o," replied Peter. "But I hope we don't have to come for the same purpose. We had a rotten time until we knew the Olivette was safe."

The Sea Scouts re-embarked in the dinghy. Bruin preferred to swim off to the boat, but before he was hauled on board he felt very sorry for himself.

The Olivette was still rolling heavily in the long gentle swell. It was quite a different motion from that in a seaway—a long swing-like movement that would quickly put the most experienced seafarer on his mettle.

Watching their opportunity as the Olivette rolled towards them, the Sea Scouts gained the deck. Roche made the painter fast, while Peter and Eric Flemming lay at full length on the waterways in order to haul Bruin on board.

It was a ticklish task, for the dog realized the danger of being crushed by the boat's bilge keel as she rolled. Twice the Patrol Leader made a grab at the animal's collar as the gunwale dropped to within a few inches of the water.

At the third attempt his fingers closed round the scruff of Bruin's neck.

"Got him!" he shouted. "Bear a hand, Eric."

Flemming leaned outboard to assist his chum. As he did so the Olivette began to roll in the opposite direction. Peter, still hanging on to his pet with one hand, grasped Eric's wrist with the other. Bruin's weight when clear of the water considerably exceeded Stratton's expectations, with the result that the Patrol Leader lost his balance and toppled overboard, bringing Flemming with him.

A roar of laughter from the rest of the crew greeted the reappearance of the two lads. Both were good swimmers, and as they came to the surface well clear of the Olivette's hull, they were in no danger. Even Peter and Eric grinned when they shook the water from their hair and eyes, while Bruin, delighted beyond measure at the idea that his master and Flemming were sharing his bath, began tugging at Stratton's sleeve.

At length Roche jumped into the dinghy and hauled Peter over the transom. Then the Patrol Leader hiked his pet over the stern and assisted Flemming into the dinghy, while Roche scrambled into the bows in a vain attempt to escape a shower-bath as the dog vigorously shook himself.

A few minutes later the Olivette's motor was running. The anchor was weighed and secured, then with three ringing cheers for the 5th Weymouth Troop, who still lingered on the beach, the Sea Scouts resumed their homeward voyage.

CHAPTER V

Trapped by the Tide

It was one of those ideal days for cruising under power. The sea was smooth, visibility good, with the sun shining brightly overhead. The rugged coast, never more than a mile away on the port hand, presented an ever changing panoramic view of the picturesque Dorset coast.

With Woodleigh at the helm and Roche giving an occasional look at the smoothly-running motor, the rest of the crew knew that they had nothing to worry about. Slipping off their jerseys, they lay upon the deck, basking in the glorious sunshine, too happy and contented even to indulge in conversation beyond a few words of appreciative admiration or the superb view.

"Port helm a couple of points, Woodleigh," ordered the Patrol Leader, after consulting the chart. "We'll have to give Kimmeridge Ledges a wide berth."

Mr. Armitage, hearing the caution, nodded his head approvingly. Stratton had acted upon his own initiative in spite of being a stranger to this part of the coast. The Scoutmaster had placed the responsibility upon the lad's shoulders, and Peter had shown that the trust had not been accepted lightly.

"Isn't that where the Treveal was wrecked two winters ago, sir?" asked Flemming.

"Yes," replied Mr. Armitage, pointing shorewards. "About there. Every vestige of the vessel has disappeared by this time. It's a bad piece of coast, with parallel reefs extending seawards. A vessel doesn't stand a dog's chance if she gets held up on those ledges."

"Why don't they have a lighthouse?" asked Hepburn. "One on St. Alban's Head would warn seamen."

"I don't know," replied Mr. Armitage. "If there had been one where you suggest, Alan, it would have saved a good many precious lives. You see, Anvil Point Lighthouse, which is hidden by St. Alban's Head, is useless to a ship that is driven too close inshore. Now then, you fellows, unless you want a ducking, you'd better come aft. We're nearing the Race."

Less than half a mile ahead the otherwise smooth sea was agitated with a patch of white-crested breakers extending seawards for more than a couple of miles. Even at that distance the waves looked decidedly dangerous.

"We've got to go through that, sir?" asked Warkworth. "Isn't there any way to avoid it?"

"By keeping a tremendous way out," replied the Scoutmaster. "It's fairly rough, but I've known it decidedly worse. Woodleigh."

"Sir?"

"Steer straight for the headland now. There's plenty of water. We shall probably miss a lot of the race by keeping close to the cliff—twenty yards will be near enough."

"What causes a race, sir?" asked the Tenderfoot.

"The tide surging over a submerged ledge," replied Mr. Armitage. "It's deep water on both sides of the headland and only a few fathoms over the rocks extending seawards from it. Now, you fellows, all hands into the well; we don't want anyone slung overboard into the ditch."

"The dinghy, sir?" inquired Flemming.

"She won't hurt. Her painter's sound," replied the Scoutmaster. "There's enough scope to prevent her overrunning us and smashing her bows under our counter."

In another minute the Olivette was within the influence of the race. At first she began to yaw in spite of the helmsman's efforts to keep her on her course. It seemed as if a giant hand was gripping the boat's keel and playfully shaking the hull.

Then, almost without warning, a sea poured over the starboard quarter. Much of the water was checked by the coaming, but a considerable quantity found its way below, liberally besprinkling the crew. Almost immediately after, another cataract poured in over the port quarter. For a moment it felt as if the Olivette were dropping vertically, then another sea, slapping viciously against her starboard bow, threw her head off a good four points.

The helmsman ported helm to meet the deflection, but for some seconds the vessel refused to answer. Almost the whole of the rudder was out of water, while the propeller was racing madly in the air.

The passage through the race was of short duration, but it was fairly strenuous while it lasted. Then, as suddenly as she had entered the turmoil, the Olivette glided into practically calm water.

"Ugh!" ejaculated Flemming, shaking the water from his clothes. "I don't like races; give me a straightforward heavy sea any old day. I expected the old boat to break her back."

"It is a disconcerting motion, I admit," said Mr. Armitage. "The waves are so hollow that the boat was not evenly supported. But it would take more than that to break her back, Eric."

Dancing Ledge and Anvil Point were quickly passed. The crew were deeply interested in the famous Tilly Whim Caves, where for centuries smugglers and wreckers were in almost indisputable possession. Then the lads had a clear view of the granite "globe", although they were a bit disappointed at its size.

"It's not much bigger than a football," declared Woodleigh.

"Isn't it?" remarked Mr. Armitage drily. "You wouldn't care to have to kick it, Will. You've lost your sense of proportion. The magnitude of the cliffs deceives you. See a buoy ahead?"

"On our starboard bow, sir."

"Then keep it well to port. That marks the tail of Peveril Ledge. You'll see Swanage opening out in a minute or so."

A few miles farther on and the granite cliffs gave place to frowning walls of glistening white chalk, terminating in the well-known pinnacle of Old Harry.

"We're getting into familiar waters now," said the Scoutmaster. "We were close—rather too close—to that point when we rescued the S.S. Pent-y-coote."

"But we never saw the land," added Flemming.

"No; but we might have hit it," remarked Mr. Armitage gravely. "Providence was kind to us that day. Hello, Peter what is interesting you—the Parson's Barn?"

The Patrol Leader was gazing landwards towards a large cave close to Old Harry.

"There are some people waving to us, sir," he replied.

"Eh?" exclaimed Mr. Armitage sharply; then raising his binoculars he brought them to bear upon the spot indicated by the Patrol Leader. "Friends of yours, Peter?" inquired Flemming facetiously. The Scoutmaster returned his binoculars to their case.

"Stand in a bit," he ordered. "There's plenty of water. Slow her down, Roche, and stand by. Unless I'm greatly mistaken, those people are cut off by the tide."

The Olivette approached at half speed to within a cable's length of the shore. Mr Armitage was correct in his surmise, for, standing on a narrow strip of beach were two men and two girls. The men were barefooted, as if they had vainly attempted to wade past the foot of the cliffs. Already the tide was rising rapidly, and in less than an hour their refuge would be invaded by the sea.

"Away dinghy's crew!" exclaimed the Scoutmaster. "Be careful how you land. There's a ground swell running."

The Olivette lost way. The dinghy was hauled alongside, and into her jumped Stratton and Flemming, each manning an oar.

Proceeding cautiously, they allowed the dinghy's forefoot to ground lightly on the pebbly beach. Flemming, with an oar, kept the stern end on to the waves, while the Patrol Leader held on to the bows.

"Think we'll manage the lot, Peter?" asked Flemming in a low voice. "Four of them?"

"I think so," replied the Patrol Leader.

"Now, please," he added, raising his voice. "As sharp as you can. We're bumping a bit."

It was a tricky operation, embarking the rescued persons, for none of them seemed at home in a small boat.

"Sit down, please," ordered Stratton firmly. "You'll be quite all right if you keep still. Ready, Eric? Right-o, push off."

By the united efforts of the two Sea Scouts the dinghy was backed clear of the beach. Then, when clear of the swell, the boat was turned until her bow pointed seaward.

"Give way together!" exclaimed Peter.

Awkwardly the four trippers climbed out of the dinghy upon the Olivette's deck, whence they were assisted into the well.

"Rather an experience, isn't it?" remarked Mr. Armitage. "Experience?" echoed one of the men bitterly. "It was a disgraceful bit of work. A boatman told us we could walk right round the point. We could—but we couldn't get back. He never said a word about the tide rising."

"And you never thought to ask," mused the Scoutmaster. "There's not much harm done," he added aloud. "We'll land you in half an hour. Are you staying at Swanage?"

"No, at Bournemouth," replied one of the girls, who, now that the danger was over, showed more spirit than either of her male companions.

"So much the better, then," observed Mr. Armitage. "We can land you without going out of our course."

"We are awfully grateful," said the girl.

"And we are glad to be able to do you a good turn," rejoined Mr. Armitage. "That's where Sea Scouts come in handy."

CHAPTER VI

Why the Water Failed

"Are we staying here long, sir?" asked Hepburn.

"That depends upon how soon we recover our compass," replied the Scoutmaster. "Why did you ask?"

"Because I'd like to take these films ashore and get them developed, sir," explained Alan.

Mr. Armitage looked rather surprised.

"I thought you did your own developing and printing," he remarked.

"Usually, sir," replied the lad, "but I've taken something that might be a bit exciting, and I'm in a hurry to see the result."

The Olivette was lying off Poole, in an anchorage locally known as "off Stakes".

It was well above the approach-channel to the quays, and consequently, out of the way of traffic, except for a few yachts and fishing-boats and an occasional barge engaged in carrying clay.

"Right-o," agreed Mr. Armitage. "I'm going ashore now to make inquiries. Anyone else for the beach?"

At length the dinghy pushed off, Hepburn and Warkworth rowing, and the Scoutmaster in the stern-sheets. The rest of the crew elected to remain on board, especially after seeing a man in a neighbouring yacht hook a couple of flounders in quick succession. They, too, meant to try their luck with hook and line.

"How about bait?" inquired Flemming. "There's a youngster digging for ragworms on the mud-flats. We'll hail him and get him to sell us some."

The boy quickly responded to the hail, and plodding along on mud-pattens to the water's edge, jumped into a flat-bottomed punt and rowed off to the Olivette.

A bargain was soon struck, and for the sum of sixpence Flemming obtained a rusty tin containing between thirty and forty slimy, writhing worms. The hooks were baited and the lines paid out. Patiently the "band of hope" waited, but save for the quivering of the lines in the tideway, the ground tackle was quite idle.

"Slow work this," observed Roche, giving envious glances at the fellow on the neighbouring yacht, who was hauling in prizes with unfailing regularity. "How is it that that merchant has all the fun, and we don't get so much as a bite?"

The sun set in a blood-red sky, betokening a continuance of fine weather. As the orb of day disappeared behind the distant hills the young flood set in.

Then did the Sea Scouts' luck change. "Dabs", plaice, and flounders were hauled on board in quick succession, until a pailful of fish represented the combined efforts of four lads in under half an hour.

Suddenly Flemming gave a shout of astonishment as his line was almost jerked out of his hand.

"I've hooked a whopper!" he exclaimed. "Doesn't the thing tug?"

"Play with him, then," suggested Peter. "He'll break your line if you don't."

"He's almost broken my fingers," rejoined the excited sportsman. "That's the whole of my line, too."

"Haul in gently," cautioned the Patrol Leader. "For goodness sake don't lose the fish."

Inch by inch, foot by foot, the thin line came inboard, until a furious swirl announced that the "catch" was not far from the surface.

The rest of the Sea Scouts left their lines and crowded round the wildly excited Flemming.

"It's a twenty-pounder, Eric," declared Woodleigh. "You're in luck."

"Twenty-pounder!" ejaculated the wellnigh breathless Flemming scornfully. "Feels like a ton.... Hello! What is it?"

"An eel—conger, most likely," declared Stratton, as a hideous head appeared. "Stand by with your knife, Woodleigh, and nick the brute behind the neck when Flemming gets it on board."

Resisting to the last, the salt-water reptile was hauled up the side and thrown on deck. At the second attempt Woodleigh succeeded in hacking the eel just behind its head.

"That's settled it!" he declared. "What an ugly brute. Now, if old Boldrigg were here, he'd have the eel skinned in a brace of shakes, and would wrap the skin round his ankle."

"What for?" asked Rayburn.

"He says an eel's skin is a certain cure for his rheumatism," replied Woodleigh.

"Old sailor's superstition, more'n likely. When——"

"Coil down and stand by, lads," ordered the Patrol Leader. "Here's Mr. Armitage coming off in the dinghy."

"Well, lads, I see you've had some luck," was the Scoutmaster's greeting as he boarded the Olivette, nearly slipping on a flat-fish as he did so.

"Yes, sir," replied Peter; "more than a pailful of them. The one that nearly threw you must have wriggled on to the deck."

"What do you think of this eel, sir?" asked Flemming.

"It's certainly of a decent size," said Mr. Armitage, turning the eel over with his foot. "Ready for supper? I am."

"Roche is cook, sir," announced the Patrol Leader. "He's in the galley now cleaning fish, I think."

"They're cleaned already and in the frying-pan," shouted the cook, who had overheard the dialogue between Mr. Armitage and Stratton. "Get the gear out on the table, Alan, and everything will be ready in a quarter of an hour."

By the time the anchor-lamp was lighted and hoisted, and everything on deck made snug for the night, supper was announced.

"How about the eel?" asked Flemming. "Where is it? Has anyone taken it below?"

No one had seen it during the last ten minutes. A search on the foredeck produced no satisfactory result.

"P'r'aps the thing wasn't dead after all," suggested Warkworth.

"It was as dead as a door nail," declared Flemming, somewhat disappointed at the loss of his trophy. "Did any careless blighter kick it overboard, I wonder?"

"I don't see that it matters very much," said Peter. "None of us like stewed eels, but of course we might have given it away to someone."

The Sea Scouts trooped below to the after cabin, where the supper things were already laid.

Roche thrust his head through the open doorway.

"We're short of water," he declared. "It took quite a time to fill the kettle."

"What?" exclaimed Stratton. "Why, we only filled the tank the day before we launched the boat. Are you sure it's empty?"

"Look for yourself, my festive," suggested Flemming.

Peter went for'ard. Under the wheel-house was a tap communicating with the fresh-water tank under the foredeck. Upon turning the tap the Patrol Leader had to come to the conclusion that the cook's report was correct. There was only a slight trickle of water.

"Evidently our friends the thieves were a bit heavy on the fresh water," remarked Mr. Armitage. "Wonder what they used such a quantity for? Fortunately there's enough to make the cocoa with. To-morrow we'll run alongside the quay and fill up by means of a hose."

The night passed without incident, although Bruin persisted in barking at the few belated craft that were making for their moorings. The Sea Scouts were getting used to this sort of thing, for whenever the Olivette was in a strange harbour, the dog seemed to have a fixed idea that no other boat ought to be in the vicinity; and when, as often happened, there was another dog to be seen, Bruin simply bristled with indignation and barked the more. "Water rats," as the longshore thieving fraternity are called, wouldn't have much chance surreptitiously to acquire the Olivette's gear when Bruin was on board.

[Illustration: THE HIGH-PRESSURE JET CAUGHT THE TENDERFOOT FULL IN THE FACE (missing from book)]

Next morning Hepburn, who was "cook of the day", could only obtain enough fresh water for half a cup of tea per head, and then only by waiting patiently at the full-open tap while the water trickled slowly.

So directly the dry meal was over the crew set to work to take the Olivette into the harbour. Here they found no vacant berth alongside the quay, but under the harbourmaster's directions they brought up against a three-masted schooner flying the Italian ensign.

"The Giuseppe Emilio," said Roche, reading the name on her stern. "She's a whacking big craft. Wonder what she's for?"

"Loading clay," replied Mr. Armitage. "There's a great quantity of clay shipped away from Poole. Stand by: here comes the hose."

As a matter of fact there were two hoses coupled together, leading from the hydrant on the quay across the Giuseppe Emilio's deck to the Olivette.

"How many gallons do you want, sir?" shouted the harbourmaster's assistant.

"Two hundred, please," replied the Scoutmaster; "we're all ready."

Roche had opened the deck-plate, and had inserted the nozzle of the hose into the three-inch pipe leading to the tank. There was a preliminary gurgle, and then like a young torrent the water poured into the tank.

"This is some stunt," declared Roche. "Better than pouring it in bucket by bucket as we usually do."

Before anyone could offer any remark, the tank overflowed. Roche, attempting to point the hose overboard, slipped on the streaming deck. Still grasping the nozzle, he sprawled at full length, while a high-pressure jet caught the Tenderfoot full in the face, hurling him backwards into Flemming's arms, and simply soaked every Scout in the well.

Before anyone could go to Roche's assistance, gallons of water had flowed into the boat. The Italian seamen, who were leaning over the bulwarks, screamed with amusement, until Woodleigh, grasping the nozzle, directed the jet upwards into their faces. Then their laughter gave place to furious gesticulations.

"Turn off!" shouted Stratton to the invisible attendant at the hydrant.

There was no response. It was not until the Patrol Leader hoisted himself on to the Giuseppe Emilio's chain-plates and crossed her deck and sprang ashore that the flow of water ceased.

"You said two hundred gallons," said the man, pointing to the meter attached to the hydrant, "and you've had less than eighty."

"And at least half of that wasted," added Stratton. "Something's wrong somewhere."

There was. Subsequent examination of the tank, which was possible by removing a watertight cover-plate, resulted in the discovery of Flemming's eel with its head wedged firmly in the outlet pipe. Although its head had been half severed, the eel had contrived to insert his tail under the deck-plate, and had prised open the metal cover sufficiently to enable it to wriggle down the feed-pipe into the tank. Then in a futile attempt to escape, the eel had jammed its head into the outlet, thus preventing the water to flow.

"There's some satisfaction in finding out why the water failed," remarked Mr. Armitage as he retired to his cabin to change his saturated garments.

CHAPTER VII

The New Hand

"And how did your photographs turn out, Alan?" asked Mr. Armitage, when he reappeared on deck, none the worse for his involuntary shower bath.

"I haven't any prints yet, sir," replied Hepburn. "The man at the photographer's shop said he could only develop the films in the time. Here they are, sir."

The Scoutmaster took the proferred envelope, and from it extracted six films.

"Ah, that's good!" he exclaimed. "The 5th Weymouth Scouts on board the Olivette. Bruin begging—that's capital. Lulworth Cove—rather a large subject for so small a film, Alan. No. 4: Old Harry viewed from seaward. You'll have a good light-and-shade effect there when the film's printed. Hello! What in the name of creation is this—and this?"

Mr. Armitage held up the fifth and sixth films, first longway and then upright. Alan watched the Scoutmaster's puzzled expression with amusement, but offered no explanation of what the negatives were supposed to be.

"I can't make either of them out," he declared. "It might represent a view of St. Alban's Race taken from the masthead, but I know that you didn't go aloft, Alan. Perhaps some of the other fellows would like to have a shot at solving the mystery."

The two films were passed round, after the general caution being given to avoid touching or scratching the gelatine face.

"Looks like a complicated contour map," hazarded Flemming, "or fancy furrows on a hill-side. Is it?"

Alan smiled and shook his head.

"Give it up, then," said Flemming resignedly.

"Finger-prints," explained Hepburn. "Greasy finger-prints on the induction pipe of the engine. I spotted them directly we came on board, so I used the double extension of my camera and took a couple of time exposures. The finger-prints are almost certainly those of one of the thieves."

"Unless some of the Weymouth fellows touched the pipe," objected Roche.

"I don't think so," replied Hepburn. "For one thing they were made by rather a big man, for the actual marks were an inch and one-eighth wide."

"If your surmise is a correct one, Alan," said Mr. Armitage, "those negatives ought to be most useful to the police."

"That's what I thought, sir," replied the young amateur detective.

"Then you had better come ashore with me and see the superintendent," suggested the Scoutmaster. "It is the duty of every citizen to assist the police; but I hope by so doing we don't have to put off our trip across Channel."

"Might we have to do that, sir?" asked Roche in awestruck tones.

"More than likely," rejoined Mr. Armitage. "Especially if the thieves are arrested. The police will certainly call us, or some of us, as witnesses. Now, then I'm going ashore to interview the harbourmaster and find out the owner of the motor-yacht who supplied the thieves with petrol in exchange for our compass. One hand will have to remain on board. The others can have leave till eleven o'clock."

Mr. Armitage's task was accomplished quicker than he had anticipated. Inquiries resulted in the information that the holder of the Olivette's compass was a well-known yachtsman, who, upon hearing the circumstances under which he had befriended the two thieves, handed back the gear without hesitation. At the police-station the Scoutmaster had to sign a statement, and when he produced the negatives of the finger-prints, the station-sergeant positively beamed with satisfaction.

"These ought to work the trick, sir," he remarked. "Scotland Yard will no doubt be able to identify the criminals. It's my belief that they are not fishermen but cracksmen well known to the Yard. You'll hear from us before very long, sir, I don't doubt."

Mr. Armitage made no audible comment. Personally he was not at all anxious to have to spoil his lads' holiday by attending police courts and the assizes. Mentally he decided to hurry up matters as far as the Paris trip was concerned, since there were witnesses sufficient to prove the culprits' guilt without the Sea Scouts being called upon to give evidence.

At noon the Olivette cast off and proceeded on the last stage of her homeward voyage. It was now blowing steadily from the sou'-west'ard, and with a fair tide outside the harbour the run seemed likely to be quickly performed.

With the last of the ebb the Olivette made short work of the distance between Poole Quay and the Bar Buoy; then starboarding helm, shaped a course to pass a mile to the south'ard of Christchurch Ledge.

Exactly two hours after leaving Poole, the staunch little craft arrived at her moorings in Keyhaven Lake.

"Now, lads," said Mr. Armitage, "the sooner we make a proper start the better. It will take us the rest of to-day and the whole of to-morrow to get ready for our cross-Channel trip. You know your respective duties, so 'get on with it', as the Service saying goes. By the by, Hepburn, you're steward. There's one thing I want to remind you about. Don't take too many boxes of matches, or we may have trouble with the douaniers on the other side. Matches are taxable articles in France."

During the afternoon Mr. Armitage cycled over to Lymington to obtain the necessary clearance papers from the Customs, and to collect a bundle of charts and sailing directions for the French coast lent him by a yachting acquaintance.

In their Scoutmaster's absence the Sea Scouts toiled hard, for there was a lot to be done before the interrupted refit of the Olivette was accomplished. Fresh water, fortunately, they had in plenty, but the paraffin- and oil-tanks required replenishing, and there was a considerable amount of spare gear to be brought down from the store.

That night Stratton, Roche, and Bruin were to sleep on board. In view of previous events the Patrol Leader decided to take no risks of another postponement.

After supper Peter and Roche took Bruin ashore for a run, and on the quay they encountered old Boldrigg.

"We're off to France the day after tomorrow, Mr. Boldrigg," announced Stratton, after he had related the circumstances under which the Olivette had been taken to Weymouth and back again. "We're hoping to go right up to Paris, and perhaps we may get a chance of seeing some of the battlefields."

"Don't I wish I were a-comin' with ye, Master Peter," said the old man wistfully. "My boy, Jim—him as was a corporal—lies out yonder. I'd like to see his grave, but travellin' costs a sight o' money, an' I'm no hand at speaking the Frenchies' lingo. I'd be all adrift if I found myself over t'other side, I'm thinkin'."

"Haven't you been to France, Mr. Boldrigg?" asked Roche.

"Ay, sure," was the reply. "When I was in the old Aldebran on the Mediterranean Station back in the 'nineties I was ashore at Toulon. Things were a bit different to what they are now. We'd just had a bit of a tiff with Johnny Crapaud, an' he was still feeling a bit sore over it. We of the lower deck kept ourselves to ourselves, in a manner o' speaking, and didn't have no truck with the French bluejackets. That was long afore the 'Intent Cordyal', or whatever they calls it, came along. Are you taking Bruin with you?"

Peter shook his head.

"We can't, unfortunately. We'll miss him, but it cannot be helped. Well, we must be getting on board, Mr. Boldrigg, so we'll wish you 'Good night'."

Early next morning the task of provisioning and preparing the Olivette for her voyage was resumed, and so quickly did the work progress that by noon everything was in readiness.

Suddenly Mr. Armitage, who had been consulting charts, navigation books, and tide tables, made an unexpected declaration.

"The wind's light and the glass steady," he observed. "I think it's a pity not to take advantage of the favourable weather conditions; so it would be advisable to make a start this evening. To my mind it is better to arrive off a strange coast soon after daybreak than just before sunset. It gives one a better chance of getting into harbour, especially as the mornings at this time of the year are generally calm. The wind, if you notice, usually pipes up about noon."

This announcement was greeted with cheers.

"And so," continued the Scoutmaster, "you had all better cut off to your respective homes and tell your parents of the alteration of plans. Don't forget to leave Bruin behind, Peter."

"Ay, ay, sir," replied the Patrol Leader. Then, after a pause, he added, "There's one other matter I'd like to mention, sir, and we all hope you'll have no objection. I've been talking about it to the other fellows, and they are all keen about it."

"Fire away, then," said Mr. Armitage encouragingly.

"It's about old Boldrigg, sir," explained Stratton. "You know he's got a son buried out in France. He'd be awfully grateful if we'd give him a passage across and back."

"That will be a very practical good turn," agreed Mr. Armitage. "Right-o; call at his cottage on your way up, and tell him to be ready and on the quay at 4 p.m. He'll have to bring his own bedding and messtraps, but we've plenty of grub, tell him."

Joyfully the Sea Scouts rowed ashore, with Bruin between the Scoutmaster and the Patrol Leader in the stern-sheets.

Bruin was the only member of the party who displayed no enthusiasm. He seemed to know that, as far as he was concerned, there was "nothin' doin'"; but a close observer would have noticed a wrinkling of the hairy brows, and a pensive look in the animal's eyes, as he pondered the possibility of getting himself included in the ship's complement for the forthcoming trip.

Having told Mr. Boldrigg the joyful news that he could accompany the Sea Scouts across Channel, the lads dispersed to their several homes.

Profiting by previous experience, Peter did not lock his pet in his bedroom. Bruin was placed in a large shed that served as a workshop at the end of the garden, Mr. Stratton promising not to let the animal out until an hour after the Olivette had slipped her moorings.

"That's right, old boy," said Peter, patting his pet's head. "Stop there a bit, and be a good little dog."

Bruin looked up at his master's face and gave a piteous howl.

"Yes, I know," continued Peter. "It's rough luck, old boy, very. You know I'd like to take you, but it's impossible."

Well to time, the crew of the Olivette assembled on the shore. With them was old Tom Boldrigg, clad in canvas trousers and jumper, and a blue pilot-coat over his arm.

His luggage consisted of a rolled hammock and blankets, a canvas bag containing his shore-going kit, and a bundle done up in a blue handkerchief.

"You managed to get here, then, Boldrigg," was Mr. Armitage's greeting.

"Ay, ay, sir," was the cheery reply. "I fetched up along all right with my kit. It's mighty good of you, sir, to put up with the likes o' me."

"Not at all," protested the Scoutmaster. "You've the lads to thank. And we'll make good use of you, never fear."

"Glad of that, sir," rejoined the old sailor. "It shows you don't think I'm a worn-out old shell-back, like some of 'em does hereabouts."

The dinghy had to make two trips before the crew of the Olivette and their belongings were placed on board. Then, while Roche and Flemming were "starting up" the motor, the others hoisted out the dinghy, and lashed her, keel uppermost, on the raised coach-roof over the engine.

"Now," announced Mr. Armitage, "we'll work in watches in the cross-Channel run. Peter, pick three of the hands and carry on till ten o'clock. I'll give you the course, but you must act entirely on your own account. I'll relieve you at ten, and carry on till daybreak."

"Very good, sir," replied Peter.

"Take her out by the Needles Channel," continued the Scoutmaster, "and shape a course to pass about a couple of miles south of St. Catherine's. You'll take your departure from that point, steering a compass course of S. 26° W. That's making allowance for deviation. Have you got that?"

"Yes, sir, S. 26° W. from St Catherine's," repeated the Patrol Leader.

"Good; now carry on, please. I'm off duty until ten o'clock."

Feeling vastly proud in the realization of his responsibility, Stratton proceeded to carry out instructions. He chose Roche, Woodleigh, and Rayburn to be in his watch, the Tenderfoot being included so that he would escape the night-watch from 10 p.m. till dawn.

"All ready, Roche?" inquired Peter, giving the wheel a preliminary turn. "Let go, for'ard."

Phil Rayburn, in spite of being termed a Tenderfoot, was no greenhorn. He knew his part of the task of casting loose the moorings.

"All gone, sir," he shouted, as the buoy splashed into the water.

"Touch astern!"

The Olivette glided more than her own length astern, until from the wheelhouse Peter could see the buoy bobbing in the water.

"Easy ahead!"

The boat quickly responded to the action of the propeller. A turn of the wheel gave her sufficient helm to avoid the buoy. Stratton was too good a helmsman to delay the start by getting his propeller mixed up with the mooring rope and chain.

"Full ahead!" shouted the Patrol Leader, in order to make himself heard above the noise of the engine. Then, with a grunt of satisfaction, Peter realized that the big adventure had actually started.

The Olivette was on her way across to La Belle France.

CHAPTER VIII

The Stowaway

Although all on board were by this time well acquainted with the Isle of Wight coast, none of the "watch below" had any inclination to "turn in". The fact that they were actually on a voyage of a different nature from any they had previously undertaken was sufficient to keep all hands on deck.

Mr. Armitage offered no protest. He knew from experience that it was next to impossible to get the thoroughly excited youngsters to rest and sleep. With old Boldrigg it was another matter. He had volunteered to share Mr. Armitage's "trick", and he was too much of an old salt to stay on deck when there was an opportunity of a "caulk" below.

Before the Olivette was abreast of Hurst High Light, Tom Boldrigg had descended to the fo'c'sle, where he immediately "got busy" by slinging his hammock. Just as he was about to turn in, a faint scuffling attracted his attention.

"Rats aboard this hooker," he soliloquized. "I'd best trice up my boots and gear clear of the deck or the blighters'll be nibbling 'em come morning."

With this resolve, Tom Boldrigg began to collect his "duds", when he heard a decided sneeze.

"Stowaway, eh?" he exclaimed. "Now, then, my hearty, whoever you be, out you come!"

Boldrigg waited for about half a minute, then, having decided that the stowaway was hiding in the tapering part of the fo'c'sle abaft the chain-locker, began to investigate in that direction.

Expecting to find a human being, he was considerably surprised when a moist tongue licked his hand.

"Why, it's a dog!" he exclaimed. "It's Bruin."

Realizing that the need for his concealment was over, Bruin emerged from his retreat, wagging his stumpy tail, but, contrary to custom, the animal made no attempt to bark.

"'Ere's a proper lash-up," soliloquized the old man. "That dog can't come along with us. That's a dead cert. But what's to be done with him? I'd best inform Master Stratton."

Peter's amazement at the news was too great for words. He could give no satisfactory explanation as to how his pet had escaped from the shed, evaded the crew, and succeeded in getting on board the Olivette unperceived. Obviously Bruin could not have leapt from the water on to the boat's deck.

"He must have pulled himself up by the cable," suggested Roche. "Plucky little beggar. Let's take him along. No one will be any the wiser. We can smuggle him ashore."

It was a tempting suggestion. As Roche had said, it would be a comparatively easy matter to land Bruin in the almost unfrequented Keyhaven on their return, but——

"Can't be done," decided Peter. "For one thing, it's against the regulations; for another, it wouldn't be fair to other dog-owners. Suppose Bruin did get in contact with a French dog infected with rabies? We'll have to put back and land him."

"It's bad luck to put back, sir," declared Tom Boldrigg. "Ask any sailorman and he'll tell you. Times I've been on board a ship that's put back for something or other, and, sure as fate, there's been a run of bad luck."

It was certainly a bit of a dilemma. The Sea Scouts were reluctant to turn back now that they had started fairly upon the voyage; but, on the other hand, they knew that it was impossible to proceed with Bruin on board.

"I'll report to Mr. Armitage," declared the Patrol Leader.

But Bruin had already done so. Scratching with his fore paws, he succeeded in pushing open the door of the after cabin, where Mr. Armitage had retired to consult his charts and nautical books.

"What does this mean, Peter?" in a tone of marked disapproval. "Smuggling your dog on board at this time is a very serious matter."

"But I didn't smuggle him, sir," protested Stratton. "He found his way on board. None of us knew until Mr. Boldrigg found him in the forepeak."

"You locked him up at home?"

"Yes, sir. I cannot understand how he got loose. I suppose we must turn back."

Mr. Armitage climbed the iron ladder out of the cockpit and glanced shorewards. Hurst Castle and the Hampshire shore were now a couple of miles astern. Broad on the port beam lay Totland Bay and the cliffs of the western end of the Isle of Wight. Ahead, and slightly on the port bow, were the Needles.

"No," he replied after a brief survey. "Unless I'm much mistaken we won't have to retrace our course. Do you see that craft coming out of Alum Bay, Peter? I rather fancy she belongs to the Totland Sea Scouts."

The Patrol Leader focused his binoculars upon the little craft—an ex-service whaler with a dipping foresail and gaff mainsail. "Yes, sir," he agreed. "There's Mr. Mostyn, their Scoutmaster, in the stern-sheets."

"That's good enough, then," continued Mr. Armitage. "Run alongside and get them to take Bruin ashore. If they've no particular object in view, they will, I feel sure, land him on Milford beach for us."

The Olivette's course was altered in order to intercept the whaler. When within a couple of hundred yards of the Totland Sea Scouts, Hepburn, holding a pair of hand-flags, stood erect upon the coach-roof.

It was not long before the Totland lads acknowledged the preparatory sign, and Alan proceeded to spell out a message, asking them if they would do a real good turn.

The whaler's canvas was lowered and the boat lost way, waiting for the Olivette to range up alongside.

Briefly Mr. Armitage explained the nature of his request.

"Certainly," replied Mr. Mostyn. "We're just out for a practice spin, and we may as well run across to Milford as anywhere. Your dog will find his way home from there, I hope? So you're off across Channel? My word, Armitage, your lads are lucky fellows."

Bruin was obviously most reluctant to part company with the Olivette. Peter had to speak sternly to his pet, and even then the animal refused to enter the whaler.

There was no help for it. Knowing that Bruin would attempt to jump overboard from the whaler and swim after the Olivette, Stratton and Flemming lashed the dog's paws together and tied a bandage over his eyes. Then, in this helpless condition Bruin was passed over the side and placed in the stern-sheets of the Totland Sea Scouts' boat.

"Good-bye and good luck!" shouted Scoutmaster Mostyn, as the two craft drew off from one another. "We'll take care of your mascot, and see him safely ashore at Milford."

Amidst an exchange of farewells the whaler rehoisted her canvas, and, close hauled on the port tack, headed for the Hampshire shore, while the Olivette, increasing speed to eight knots, resumed her interrupted voyage.

CHAPTER IX

Broken Down in Mid-Channel

Peter Stratton carried out his instructions to the letter. Upon rounding the Needles he steered in the direction of St. Catherine's, keeping a mile and a half from shore, in order to give a wide berth to the dangerous Atherfield Ledges, ridges of sharp rock that have sealed the fate of many a gallant ship and her crew. It was slow work plugging against a strong west-going tide, but, as Mr. Armitage had remarked, it was better to have a foul tide to begin with and a fair one when the Olivette approached the French coast, than the reverse.

At seven o'clock the Olivette was in a position to "make her departure", and accordingly she was set on the given course for her eighty odd miles' run across the Channel.

"We're a long time losing sight of land," observed Woodleigh, when an hour later the chalk cliffs of St. Catherine's were still visible in the slanting rays of the sun.

"It's the height that tells," rejoined Peter. "We're a good ten miles off. We're running at eight knots only."

"Why only eight?" asked Rayburn.

"Because, if we cracked on at full speed we'd stand to pile ourselves upon the rocks on t' other side in the darkness," replied the Patrol Leader.

Stratton was kept fairly busy. The Olivette was now in the steamer track, where vessels proceeding up and down Channel make it a practice of keeping within certain limits of St. Catherine's. There were ships of all sizes and descriptions. A P. & O. liner, homeward bound, was passing a Bullard mail-boat on the way to the Cape and East Africa. Ambling along at a very modest speed were colliers, "tankers", and tramps, while a full-rigged Dutchman, carrying every stitch of canvas, formed a striking contrast to the mechanically propelled craft.

A little later a couple of destroyers, in line ahead, came pelting down Channel. Although they passed not less than a quarter of a mile from the Olivette, their "wash" broke furiously over the boat's bows, sending spray high above the wheelhouse.

Then, as the Olivette drew away from the "lane", the stream of shipping ceased, and as sunset approached she was alone on a waste of placid water.

At ten the relief watch was called. Mr. Armitage came on deck wearing his pilot coat. He made no attempt to check the course or to offer any suggestions. He was placing his crew entirely on their mettle, but from what he saw he had no cause to criticize.

Stratton, having "handed over" to Warkworth, went below, where Hepburn had a hot supper ready for those of the crew who had come off duty.

"Where's Roche?" he inquired, seeing that the rest of the watch—Woodleigh and Rayburn—were already "tucking in" with avidity.

"Yarning with Flemming about something," replied Woodleigh. "I fancy there's trouble in the engine-room."

Presently Roche appeared.

"Lend me your torch, Peter, old son," he said.

"Aren't you grubbing?" asked the Patrol Leader.

Roche shook his head.

"I'm seeing this thing through first," he replied. "She's not been running well this last hour or two. Too rich a mixture, I think. Flemming and I are going to take the jet out, but before we start I want to see how much oil there is in the main tank."

Peter handed Roche his torch.

"We'll keep your grub hot," he added as the engineer hurried out of the cabin.

In less than a minute Roche returned.

"We're in a bad way," he announced. "She's been mopping up the juice like anything. The paraffin tank's nearly empty."

"Why, how's that?" asked Stratton.

"Punctured float, I'm afraid," replied Roche. "We'll have to stop the motor for half an hour or so."

"Right-o," assented the Patrol Leader, pushing away his cup, saucer, and plate. "I'll come and bear a hand. Have you reported to Mr. Armitage?"

The Scoutmaster received the news without expressing any suggestion.

"Carry on," he remarked.

The Sea Scouts accordingly "carried on". They had but one red lamp on board in addition to the port light. Two red masthead lights were required to indicate that the Olivette was not under command. It was the Tenderfoot who solved the problem by suggesting that the white masthead light should be covered with the fold of the Red Ensign.

The "not under command" lights were hoisted, and the port and starboard ones extinguished. The ignition to the motor was switched off, and Stratton, Roche, and Flemming proceeded to take down the carburetter, while Woodleigh held the electric torch to enable them to see what they were doing.

They worked methodically, placing a piece of canvas under the carburetter to catch any nut that might be accidentally dropped, while all the loose parts were carefully placed in a small tin box.

The float was deftly removed.

"It feels suspiciously heavy," declared Flemming. "Yes, it's chock full of paraffin or petrol."

"Take it into the after-cabin," said Peter. "We'll solder it there. It will be a jolly sight safer away from the engine-room. Get the Tinol box out, Dick."

The first part of the operation was the boiling of the float. The hot water would not only cause the confined air to escape and indicate the position of the leak, it would also expel the petrol.

The task was proceeding most satisfactorily when the Olivette suddenly began to roll in the swell of a distant steamer. Before the Sea Scouts could prevent it, the stove capsized, throwing the saucepan and its contents upon the floor. Instantly the petrol—fortunately only a few teaspoonfuls—burst into flames.

Flemming made a dash for the Pyrene extinguisher, but before he returned, Roche and the Patrol Leader had quenched the flames by smothering them with a blanket. But the worst was to come, for, when Peter picked up the still hot brass cylinder, the solder had melted and the float was irreparably damaged.

Without the float the motor couldn't function. There the Scouts were, almost in mid-Channel, in a boat that was now at the mercy of wind and tide.

"There's one blessing," remarked Roche. "We've got the fire out."

"At the expense of a jolly good blanket," added Flemming.

"Better a burnt blanket than a burnt boat," rejoined Roche. "What's to be done now?"

"Never say die," quoted Stratton. "Find a chunk of cork, someone. There's plenty on board. We'll make a cork float."

"No good without shellac," objected Roche. "It will go to pieces in the petrol."

"Let it, then," said Peter with a laugh. "The pieces can't come out of the old metal float. I'll pack it full of cork and tap over the ends. We'll have the old hooker making way in another twenty minutes."

The suggestion was quickly acted upon. By the aid of a light hammer Stratton succeeded in refixing the unsoldered end of the float, having previously filled it with cork. Although not so buoyant as an air-filled float, the substitute served its purpose, the only drawback being a rather heavy consumption of fuel; but directly the carburetter was replaced, the motor restarted without hesitation.

"Phew!" ejaculated Stratton, wiping his heated brow. "Do you know what the time is? A quarter past twelve. I'm turning in."

Before so doing, the Patrol Leader went on deck to have a look round. The night was dark, the sea calm. Almost dead ahead a white glare appeared above the horizon every five seconds. It was from the lighthouse of Cape de la Hogue.

Right astern a powerful beam seemed to travel across the sky, with the same speed and regularity as the light ahead. It was St. Catherine's, making a gesture of farewell from the shores of England, now nearly forty miles astern.

Aloft, the Olivette's two red lights had been replaced by her ordinary white masthead light; her port and starboard lamps were once more burning brightly. Inside the wheel-house, the faint glare from the binnacle shone upon Warkworth's solemn features as the lad kept the boat on her course.

Right in the eyes of the ship stood the motionless figure of Tom Boldrigg. No doubt his thoughts were going back to those far-off times when he performed a similar duty as look-out man upon one of His Majesty's ships, or perhaps he was thinking of the still-distant land where his soldier son slept his long rest.

Right aft, with his feet placed firmly apart and his hands clasped behind his back, stood the Scoutmaster. No doubt he, too, was thinking of how he stood thus under the shadow of the White Ensign, and was recalling vivid yet pleasant pictures of those strenuous days of the Great War.

Seeing Stratton appear on deck, Mr. Armitage walked towards him.

"All correct, sir," reported the Patrol Leader.

"That's good," rejoined Mr. Armitage. "When the motor gave out, I guessed you fellows would be equal to the task of getting it going again. And I was not mistaken."

CHAPTER X

Alan Speaks French

Sunrise—a grey sky and a high dawn; long drab-coloured rollers driven on by the steady westerly wind; away to the south'ard a line of dark-grey cliffs, hardly distinguishable from the sombre hues of sea and sky. This was the first impression of the French coast upon the minds of the Sea Scouts of the Olivette.

Here and there the coastwise lights were vainly endeavouring to hold their own against the steadily increasing dawn. The powerful beams from the lighthouses of Cape de la Hogue and Cape Levi had already been extinguished, but from the Digue and the high ground above the town of Cherbourg there were still faint pinpricks of luminosity.

Away to the east'ard a couple of tramps were ploughing against the strong ebb, making apparently for Havre. Between the Olivette and the shore were about twenty fishing-boats, their dark-tanned sails close-hauled to the breeze as they raced homewards with the fruits of their night's toil.

"We haven't made a bad passage, sir," remarked Stratton as he came on deck.

"We're not there yet, Peter," replied Mr. Armitage. "We've hit a pretty hot ebb tide, and it's sweeping us to the west'ard. I'm afraid we won't do much till the young flood sets in."

"How fast is the tide running, sir?" asked the Patrol Leader.

"A good six knots, I imagine," was the reply. "Six knots broad on our port beam, and we're doing about eight. We'll be in luck if we're inside the breakwater by six o'clock. It's now eight minutes to four."

"Hello, Mr. Boldrigg!" exclaimed Peter, as the old seaman stumped aft, swinging his arms. "You've had a long trick."

"Yes," agreed Tom. "A middlin' long trick; but it's only making up for lost time, so to speak."

"There's hot cocoa below," announced the Patrol Leader.

"He insisted upon being look-out man," remarked Mr. Armitage after Boldrigg had disappeared below. "I offered to send for'ard a relief, but he wouldn't let me. He's been up in the bows ever since ten o'clock. He's certainly earned his passage. Sleep well, Peter?"

"Toppingly, sir," replied the lad. It was his first night on board while the boat was under way, and in spite of the motion and the rumble and vibration of the propeller, he had slumbered soundly and well.

"Good!" rejoined the Scoutmaster. "Then I think I'll turn in for an hour or so. You'll find a chart of Cherbourg in the wheel-house. Provided you make due allowance for the set of the tide, there is nothing of a difficult nature to contend against. You can just distinguish the central breakwater—the Digue. The eastern entrance is the one for us."

Mr. Armitage went below, while Stratton entered the wheel-house and "took over" from Flemming.

The next hour passed slowly. Although the young helmsman kept the Olivette well against the tide, her progress seemed painfully slow. It was not until the tide slackened and changed that the boat made any appreciable headway.

"Call Mr. Armitage," said Stratton as the Olivette rounded the Fort de l'Est—the easternmost point of the Digue—and the whole of the vast enclosed Cherbourg Harbour came into view.

The Scoutmaster was quickly on deck. "We're in, then?" he remarked. "Fine breakwater that. Have you any idea of what it cost?"

"No, sir," replied Peter.

"Roughly, £220 a linear foot," declared Mr. Armitage. "It took more than seventy years to build, and is 4060 yards in length, or two and a half times the length of Plymouth Breakwater. Now, Roche, slow down to five knots, and stand by the reversing-lever."

"Do we anchor, sir?" asked Peter.

"No," was the reply. "We'll go into the Avant Port and afterwards into the Bassin à Flot—that's a sort of dock with gates to prevent the water running out. Get the hands ready with the warps and fenders."

Very gently the Olivette brought up alongside the weed-covered walls of the quay. As the tide had only just begun to rise, the masonry towered nearly thirty feet above her deck. Willing hands ashore helped to secure the little English craft, from the stern of which the Red Ensign drooped in the calm, sheltered basin.

Although it was yet early, the Sea Scouts had to receive a visitor. A short thick-set bearded Frenchman, with a sheaf of papers under his arm, ponderously descended the vertical ladder and scrambled upon the Olivette's deck.

"Your papairs, ef you please," he demanded. "From England, eh? you is capitaine, monsieur? Have you anyt'ing to declare?"

"Quelques boîtes d'allumettes, un peu de sel, pas de vin, pas de whisky, pas de tabac," replied Mr. Armitage.

The douanier's face had grown graver and graver as the recital proceeded. This craft was different from those with which he usually had to deal. English yachts generally had spirits and beer on board, and as a result he had obtained a glass of whisky and a generous pourboire. This time he had struck a "dry" ship.

"I must ze search make," he declared.

"Certainly, Monsieur Jules," rejoined the Scoutmaster in French. "It will not be the first time you have explored my lockers."

The custom house official started and looked intently into Mr. Armitage's face. Then with an exclamation of surprise he flung his arms round the Scoutmaster's neck, and to the amusement of the crew, kissed him on both cheeks.

"Ma foi," he exclaimed, "c' est le capitaine de vaisseau Armitage. I am charmed to see you again, monsieur, but I failed to recognize you. No, the search is unnecessaire. I vill sign your papairs tout de suite."

He went with the Scoutmaster into the after cabin.

"Queer bird that," remarked Hepburn. "Fancy one man kissing another."

"Custom of the country, I suppose," rejoined Roche. "Wonder how he knew Mr. Armitage?"

The question was answered after the douanier had taken his departure.

"I met Jules when I was in R.N.V.R.," explained Mr. Armitage. "Our M.L.'s frequently put into Cherbourg, and as we generally had plenty of provisions on board and people ashore here were on very short allowances, we were made most welcome. Now, lads, we have to wait until nine o'clock before the dock gates open, so suppose we pipe all hands to breakfast."

"Fine idea, sir," replied Hepburn, who was always a good trencherman.

"It is," rejoined Mr. Armitage. "So you can nip ashore, Alan, and get some bread. The bakers open early here. Take this money. I took the precaution of getting Jules to change some for me."

He handed Hepburn a roll of papers, which at first sight looked like a bundle of Treasury notes. Actually these were franc notes, each of the value of about fivepence or sixpence.

Thrusting the money into his pocket, Alan swarmed up the ladder against the quay. At the top he paused and looked down upon his chums.

"I'm the first of you fellows to set foot on French soil at all events," he remarked proudly.

Then making his way between a crowd of interested waterside loafers, Hepburn set off on his quest.

It did not take him long to find a baker's shop.

He kept his eyes open for the word "boulangerie", and his sense of smell on the alert for the appetizing odour of new bread.

Alan was rather proud of his French. He had gained two prizes at school for his knowledge of that language, but when he found himself confronted by a portly pleasant-faced woman he was literally tongue-tied.

"Let me see," he soliloquized desperately; "what was that wheeze old Patinot taught us: If you eat new bread you'll have an 'ache'. Yes, that's it; ache is the French for bread—Deux aches, s'il vous plaît, madame."

Madame looked decidedly puzzled and shook her head.

"Oh, dash it all!" ejaculated the Sea Scout. "It wasn't ache; it was pain—same thing, only different: Deux pains, s'il vous plaît."

This time Madame was pleased to understand, and Alan was the recipient of a couple of loaves of about four inches in diameter and nearly a yard in length.

Triumphantly Hepburn carried his purchases back to the quay, and threw them into the outstretched arms of Warkworth.

"Since you've made such a success of your expedition, Alan," said Mr. Armitage, "I wish you'd take these letters to the postoffice. Remember to put a five centimes stamp on each. By the time you return breakfast will be ready."

Alan took the envelopes, reascended the ladder, and crossed the pavé-covered quay. After wandering for some distance without finding the post-office, it occurred to him to inquire the way.

A magnificently uniformed gendarme was walking down the street. Alan went up to him and saluted Scout fashion, and the gendarme replied with an elaborate military salute.

"Au poste, monsieur!" exclaimed Hepburn, sure of his ground this time.

"Mais oui certainement," was the reply. "Par ici, monsieur."

The gendarme escorted Alan, and a steadily increasing crowd of idlers and children followed the pair. Hepburn felt rather elated. It was his Sea Scout's rig, he decided, that was such an attraction.

Throwing his shoulders back and holding his head high, he walked proudly by the side of his uniformed guide.

But he felt far from elated when the gendarme led him through a doorway into a low-ceilinged room where half a dozen armed men were standing. The door closed behind him, a gendarme planted his back against it, and half a dozen pairs of eyes were fixed upon the now astonished lad.

One thing was certain. Instead of being taken to the post-office, he had been shown into the police-station. It was an easy matter to enter, but would it be so easy to get out?

CHAPTER XI

"Wounded"

"Alan's not hurrying himself," remarked Roche, when the appetizing breakfast was half consumed.

"He certainly ought to have been back by this time," agreed Mr. Armitage. "Perhaps he is entering into conversation with some French Scouts."

"That reminds me," said Flemming, who also prided himself upon a knowledge of the French language. "I was wondering what to say as an exclamation when we are talking to these Scouts. For instance, what is the usual translation of 'Well, I'm jiggered'?"

"I've rarely heard you say that, Flemming," observed Peter. "You generally exclaim, 'Well, I'm blest', I notice."

"That's easily translated, then," rejoined Flemming. "It's merely: Je suis blessé."

Apparently Eric's rendering of the phrase satisfied his companions. Mr. Armitage smiled to himself, but said nothing. He was rather curious to know what would happen when Flemming expressed himself thus.

"I'll let it go at that," concluded Flemming. "Now, what about Alan, you fellows? Hadn't we better send out a search-party?"

Stratton and Roche volunteered to accompany Eric, and receiving the Scoutmaster's permission, they went ashore.

Inquiries of people on the quay soon put the searchers on the track. The young English Sea Scout had been a fairly conspicuous feature on the French landscape. After proceeding down three or four streets, Flemming received the startling information that the lost youth had been seen taken into the police-station under the care of a gendarme.

"What's he been doing, I wonder?" asked Roche. "Butting up against some rotten red-tape regulation, I expect. Hadn't we better inform Mr. Armitage?"

"Let's make certain that Alan's under arrest first," suggested the Patrol Leader, and, led by a gamin, the Sea Scouts proceeded to the police-station.

At the door they nearly collided with the lost youth. Hepburn, looking rather red in the face, showed no enthusiasm at seeing his chums.

"I made a mistake," he admitted. "I mistook the police-station for the post-office, and it took me some time to explain."

Flemming roared with merriment.

"You're a bright one!" he exclaimed. "I know what you did: you asked for 'le poste' instead of 'la poste'. The first means a police-station, the second a post-office. That's one up against you, my festive."

The letters having been stamped and posted, the four Sea Scouts returned to the Olivette, where Hepburn made a belated breakfast to the accompaniment of a running fire of chaff from his chums.

"You wait," declared Alan, imperturbably; "I'll score off you fellows yet."

The breakfast things having been washed up and stowed away, the Sea Scouts set to work to scrub decks and make the Olivette look a credit to them. By the time this task was accomplished the gates of the Bassin-à-Flot were opened. In four hours the Olivette had been lifted vertically through a height of eighteen feet by the rising tide.

"You see now why I want to try and bring the boat into the floating-dock," observed Mr. Armitage. "If we remained in the tidal harbour we would have to be continually altering the scope of the warps as the level of the water changed. Here we are relieved of that trouble and responsibility, and there is no necessity to have to ascend and descend the long ladder to get ashore or on board at low water."

The Olivette safely moored, the Sea Scouts prepared for a ramble ashore, to see the sights of the town. Flemming was not one of the party, having been told off to act as ship-keeper; while old Tom Boldrigg was making up for his prolonged trick as look-out man by sleeping soundly on one of the locker seats in the well.

While his comrades were seeing the sights, Eric Flemming had by no means a dull time. It quickly dawned upon him that the many advantages of the Bassin-à-Flot were outdone by the obvious disadvantages of the place. The hot sun pouring down upon the enclosed space of water was too strong to be pleasant, especially when the heat caused the garbage floating upon the surface to emit most unpleasant odours.

It was Flemming's first experience of a "wet" dock, and before very long he sincerely hoped it might prove his last.

After a while Eric went below to escape the glare. He had not been in the cabin more than five minutes before a dull thud sounded on the deck over his head. Then came another thud, followed by others in quick succession, until Flemming realized that the Olivette was being bombarded.

Putting on his cap, the lad gained the well. Almost as soon as he stepped outside the cabin door a missile hit him on the head. Fortunately the thick sailor's cap with its white cap-cover mitigated the blow, but even then it was sufficient to make the lad wince.

He quickly took in the situation. Ten or twelve ragged gamins were gathered on the edge of the quay, engaged in the pleasant and congenial task of hurling stones and cabbage-stalks upon the Olivette's deck and raised cabin-top.

"Alles-vous-en!" shouted Flemming. The boys retreated a few steps, but seeing that the Sea Scout made no attempt to follow up his advantage, they held their ground, jeering and redoubling their fire.

Eric hardly knew what course to pursue. It was not good form to start scrapping on foreign soil. A jolly sound hiding, he reflected, would do the gamins a world of good, but there were the after results to be taken into consideration. If each of the aggressors went away and returned with two or three pals, the Olivette would hardly be tenable under a terrific fusillade of stones and garbage. On the other hand, he could not allow the boat to be made into a sort of maritime Aunt Sally for the edification of a crowd of juvenile ruffians.

He might have parleyed with them, or bribed them to go away quietly, but this method did not appeal to his British spirit. He was alone. Old Boldrigg was sleeping profoundly, quite oblivious to the tocsin sounding over his head.

Springing ashore, Flemming rushed at his tormentors. They turned and fled incontinently, although several of them were bigger than Eric. He chased them for about fifty yards along the quay, and then returned to the Olivette.

But the retreat was only temporary. The moment Flemming regained the deck the gamins returned, the number considerably augmented, while a crowd of men engaged in unloading a schooner ceased their work to watch and enjoy the scene.

Flemming waited until the first missile of the renewed attack hurtled through the air, then he charged his assailants. Again the latter took to their heels, but Eric meant to see the business through this time.

Overtaking and ignoring the smaller and weaker of the boys, he held on until he collared a tall, hulking fellow, who was one of the ringleaders. Applying a very effective arm-lock, Flemming made his captive accompany him to the Olivette.

"Now I've found a hostage," thought Eric, as he deftly drew the lad's arms behind him and round the mast and lashed the wrists together. "They won't dare to hurl things on board now."

But he was mistaken. The gamins found increased delight in pelting their former leader. Perhaps they had a grudge against him. There he stood, yelling and bawling threats against his fellows until Flemming felt obliged to release him.

"'Spose I must grin and bear it until the others return," he soliloquized, as the boys renewed the bombardment.

Suddenly the gamins, uttering shouts of warning, took to their heels.

Looking to see what had caused the flight, Flemming saw a troop of French Scouts doubling along the quay. There were two patrols—about fourteen Scouts in all—but before them, the gamins, numbering between forty and fifty, simply melted away.

The Patrol Leader saluted Flemming courteously, and the Sea Scout smartly returned the salute. Then in a curious mixture of French and English and a broken attempt at both, the Scouts and the Sea Scout engaged in a "palaver".

It was rather a one-sided affair. A dozen French Scouts were talking and asking questions simultaneously, while the English Sea Scout hardly knew which remark to reply to.

"I have been to l'Angleterre," declared one of the Scouts. "Ze last summaire I vas at Sout'ampton at ze rally."

"I was there, too," replied Flemming; then using his Gallicized version of his favourite ejaculation, he added, "Je suis blessé."

The effect was startling and electrical. There was a brief pause following Eric's words. A dozen Scouts invaded the Olivette. Grasped by several pairs of hands, the astonished Flemming, too taken aback to offer any resistance, was gently deposited upon the deck. A confused babel greeted his ears, one of the most frequently used words being "blessé". Several of the French Scouts produced a packet of bandages and a first-aid outfit, while there were shouts raised for "le médecin".

"What's the game," thought the bewildered Flemming. "Are they giving a first-aid demonstration and using me as a subject, just to show how they go about it?"

Someone placed a pile of rolled coats under his head. His shoes and stockings were deftly removed. His jersey was peeled off, although it looked at one time as if the French Scouts meditated cutting it away. They felt his heart and his pulse, and tried to examine his tongue.

In the midst of the demonstration, the timely arrival of Mr. Armitage and the rest of the Sea Scouts saved Flemming from further unrequired attention. Quickly the well-meaning and excitable French lads were induced to desist, and Eric was allowed to regain his feet.

"What have you been doing, Flemming?" asked his Scoutmaster. "Have you hurt yourself?"

"No, sir," replied Eric.

"Then why are these Scouts on board with their first-aid bandages?"

"I don't know, sir; I'm blessed if I do!" declared Flemming. "I was just talking to them, and——"

"I suppose you said, 'Well, I'm blessed' in French," added Mr. Armitage with a twinkle of amusement in his eyes.

"I certainly remember saying 'Je suis blessé'," admitted Flemming, who was beginning to feel a bit dubious as to whether what he had said was what he meant to say.

"That did it," continued Mr. Armitage. "I knew it would happen before very long. 'Je suis blessé' is not 'I'm blessed' but 'I am wounded'. Hurry up and go below and get dressed properly."

The discomfited Flemming beat a hasty retreat amidst the laughter of his companions.

CHAPTER XII

"In the Ditch"

The French Scouts remained on board for another half-hour. They inspected and were duly impressed by the Olivette and her equipment; they exchanged confidences with their brother Sea Scouts, to whom difference of nationality counted for little as far as the Universal Brotherhood of Scouts went. Before they took their departure, the French boy's invited the Olivette's crew to a picnic at Equeurdreville—a seaside hamlet a few miles to the west of Cherbourg—on the following morning.

"I do not think we shall be able to accept," said Peter. "We are sailing for Havre early to-morrow, if all's well."

One of the French Patrol Leaders shrugged his shoulders and threw out the palms of his hands in a characteristic Gallic attitude.

"I do not think you vill sail," he remarked.

"Why not?" asked Stratton.

The lad pointed in the direction of Fort l'Onglet, above which a cone, point uppermost, had been hoisted to the yard-arm of a mast.

"Regardez bien!" he exclaimed.

Mr. Armitage, following the direction of the French Patrol Leader's outstretched finger, noted the signal. It meant that bad weather—a gale from the nor'ard—was approaching. If any confirmation were necessary the barometer proved it. The glass had fallen four-tenths in less than a couple of hours.

"There's one thing," observed Stratton, after the visitors had taken their departure. "It's one of those short, sharp summer gales:

'Long foretold, long last,
Short warning, soon past'.

It's a good thing we're in a secure harbour."

Flemming made a wry face.

"It's too much of a good thing," he protested. "I've never, never been in a basin before, and this one's quite enough. Doesn't it whiff?"

"It does," admitted Peter. "Now you come to mention it, there is an odour of sorts."

"And those little bounders the French ragamuffins," continued Eric. "The stuff lying on the decks is only a small part of what they threw. I cleared up three times before the Cherbourg Scouts came upon the scene and chased them off. Hello, what's this coming?"

The lock gates were open and a large tramp steamer was being warped into the Bassin-à-Flot. From where the Olivette lay, the steamer's stern was masked by the rise of her deckhouse and bridge, but the ensign was just visible—a dirty, wind-frayed, coal-grimed piece of red bunting with a Union Jack in the upper quarter next the staff.

That nondescript piece of bunting meant something real to the British Sea Scouts. Even though they had not long left their native shores they were already fully aware that they were strangers in a foreign land, but here was a bit of England—technically British soil although afloat—and the sight of it was cheering.

The harbourmaster, purple with incoherent shouting, hurried along the quay-side, waving his arms and pointing frenziedly at the on-coming tramp.

"What does he want?" exclaimed Hepburn.

"I rather fancy he wants us to shift," remarked Peter.

The Patrol Leader's surmise was confirmed by a voice hailing from the tramp's bridge.

"Ahoy, there!" shouted a short, thick-set, jovial-looking officer clad in a salt-stained serge uniform. "Can you drop astern a couple of lengths?"

"Ay, ay," replied Peter, and in a very short time the Olivette's warps were cast off and the boat tracked aft along the quay.

When the Acacis—for that was the tramp's name—was safely berthed, the officer who had hailed the Olivette came aft.

"Thanks!" he exclaimed. "You Sea Scouts know your job, I can see."

"Thank you," replied Peter. "May we come aboard you and have a look round?"

"Right-o," was the reply.

The skipper of the Acacis—bound from Cardiff to Cherbourg and Le Havre—made the Sea Scouts right welcome. It was, for the majority of them, the first opportunity they had had of "looking over" a big vessel.

"Yes, it'll blow before night," the skipper observed in answer to Peter's question. "We struck it pretty bad off the Longships, and right across the Channel there was a tidy roll on. That generally means a bit of a blow. You'll be here for the best part of a week, I'll allow."

The Sea Scouts showed no enthusiasm over this piece of information. Flemming was positively downhearted.

"Look here," suggested the Acacis' Old Man, when he learnt of the unwelcome attentions of the Cherbourg gamins, "why not lie alongside of us? You'll get a tidy bit of coal-dust, but that's a jolly sight better than cabbage-stalks and dead cats dumped on your deck."

The offer was gladly accepted. The Olivette's bow-warp was passed on board the tramp and the boat hauled alongside the Acacis' starboard side. Sheltered by the latter vessel's towering hull, the Olivette was no longer a target for the ragamuffins of the port.

As the skipper had predicted, it blew hard at sunset, the gale continuing all the following day, accompanied by heavy showers. But the Olivette was in snug shelter, the basin being completely landlocked, while the rain did not prevent the Sea Scouts enjoying the hospitality of their French friends.

At length the storm moderated, and on the fourth day the sea had subsided sufficiently to enable the Olivette to resume her voyage. The Acacis, having discharged a portion of her cargo, was also due to leave Cherbourg for Le Havre. Directly the gates of the Bassin-à-Flot were opened, the Olivette motored through into the Avant-Port. Here she tied up, for it was inadvisable to make a start for the east'ard before half-ebb. By so doing the Olivette would "carry her tide" for eight or nine hours, and as the tides run strongly off the French coast, the question of "working them" was an important one.

Mr. Armitage had to obtain clearance papers and lay in sundry stores, so that the time was not wasted, and when the Olivette headed seaward, the Acacis was steaming through the East Channel.

"We've about one knot advantage in speed," remarked the Scoutmaster, "but we'll slow down a bit and let her pilot us. It's rather a dangerous bit of coast between here and Cape Levi. Look at that broken water. Anyone would think that there was a gale raging off that point, but it's merely a tidal race."

Dead in the wake of the tramp, and about a cable's length astern, the Olivette kept. At intervals members of the Acacis' crew semaphored jocular messages to the Sea Scouts, to which the latter replied with the greatest zest.

About five miles beyond Cape Barfleur the Olivette overtook a French fishing smack. One of the crew of the latter, noticing that the Sea Scouts were semaphoring, attempted to send them a message.

"Dashed if I can make out what that fellow is saying," exclaimed Hepburn with a puzzled look. "Can you, Reggie?"

Warkworth shook his head. He was reckoned to be a good signaller, but the Frenchman's semaphoring was beyond him.

"I'm not surprised," said Peter. "The French system is different from ours. Don't you remember when we were at Dover——"

The Patrol Leader's reminiscence was interrupted by a warning shout from old Tom Boldrigg, who was in his favourite post as look-out man. Simultaneously the Acacis put her helm over to starboard, while a white object was hurled from her port quarter.

"Man overboard," shouted Boldrigg. "A hand from the tramp's in the ditch."

Mr. Armitage opened the window of the wheel-house and warned Roche to stand by with his reversing-lever.

"There he is!" exclaimed Peter. "A point on our port bow."

"Easy ahead!" ordered the Scoutmaster, then "Stop!"

The Olivette was now within fifty yards of the man, who was swimming towards the buoy. It was evident that he was not a good swimmer. He was splashing violently, and making very little headway in proportion to the energy he displayed, and already his strength was diminishing. It was a question whether he might succeed in gaining the buoy before he became exhausted.

Flemming, Woodleigh, and Warkworth ran for'ard, the former with a boat-hook and the others with life-lines. Eric shouted encouragement to the swimmer, and for the first time the man seemed conscious of the approach of the Olivette.

"He's almost done for!" exclaimed Woodleigh.

The time taken by the Olivette to approach the man seemed interminable, but as there was a considerable "lop" on, Mr. Armitage dare not risk holding on at any speed for fear of running down the swimmer. The Scoutmaster was manoeuvring to bring the boat to a standstill dead in the eye of the wind and close to the man. Once the Olivette got broadside on to the wind she would be swept far to leeward of the swimmer, and lose valuable time before she could again get within close distance.

Flemming held the boat-hook stave towards the man, but the latter had not the strength to grasp the ash pole. Before the Sea Scout could reverse the boat-hook and catch the swimmer with the metal hook, the man was beyond reach.

Warkworth hurled a line, but the rope being new, the coils failed to free themselves, and the bight fell short.

Without hesitation, Woodleigh leapt into the sea, taking one end of the line with him.

Half a dozen strokes brought him to the man, who was actually on the point of sinking. The fact that his chums were holding on to the end of the rope gave Woodleigh confidence. Regardless of the risk of being clutched by a drowning man, Will allowed himself to be caught in a desperate grip. Down he went, rescuer and rescued in a mutual embrace; then the line tautened, and in another fifteen seconds willing hands grasped the plucky Scout and his now almost senseless burden and hauled them into safety.

Woodleigh, none the worse for his immersion, beyond the fact that he had swallowed a good half-pint of salt water, went below to change his clothes. Flemming, Hepburn, and Warkworth attended to the rescued man, who was now quite insensible.

Meanwhile, the Acacis had starboarded helm and reversed her engines. Her skipper had seen that the Olivette was proceeding to the rescue, and, having witnessed the successful issue of the attempt, had given orders for a boat to be lowered to bring the man back.

"Semaphore the Acacis, Alan," ordered the Scoutmaster. "Tell them to carry on, and we'll hand over the man at Havre. He's not in a fit state to be moved at present."

The tramp acknowledged the signal, and replied that the arrangement would be most satisfactory; then both vessels, having resumed their former course, headed for the still distant port of Le Havre.

"You managed that awfully well, sir," exclaimed Peter.

"Did I?" rejoined Mr. Armitage. "As a matter of fact it was quite an easy matter, because we were in the wake of the tramp. Supposing one of us had fallen overboard, what would you have done?"

"Thrown over a life-belt, sir," replied the Patrol Leader.

"And what then?"

"Gone astern," was the reply.

Mr. Armitage shook his head.

"Never in a light-draughted, single-screwed boat," he declared. "She'd never answer to her helm while going astern, and if the wind were abeam, she'd be blown to lee'ard of the man in the water. Now remember, if there's time, put the boat's helm over so that the boat's stern flies away from the person overboard. That is to avoid hitting him with the propeller, since men who have fallen overboard almost invariably try to swim towards the boat. Then, keeping 'easy ahead', make a complete circle and come up bows on to the man, keeping just enough way for the boat to answer her helm, and still get there quicker and with far more chance of success than by any other way."

"I'll remember that, sir," said Peter. "But I hope I'll never have to try it."

"And I, too," added Mr. Armitage fervently. "But one never knows."

CHAPTER XIII

The Bore

The Olivette saved her tide into the outer basin of Le Havre. She was just in time to enter the lock gates of the Bassin de l'Eure before they were closed on the falling tide. Meanwhile, the Acacis had berthed in the Bassin Vauban.

"More floating docks!" exclaimed Flemming ruefully, as he surveyed the stagnant water. "How long do we stop here, sir, please?"

"Only until we've handed back the man belonging to the Acacis, and shown our papers to the authorities," replied Mr. Armitage. "We are going to bring up in the Tancarville Canal to-night."

"Canal, sir?" echoed Roche. "I thought we were going up the River Seine."

"So we are, Dick," replied the Scoutmaster. "This canal, however, saves us a dangerous bit of navigation. The estuary of the Seine is full of shifting sandbanks, and if we did happen to get aground, the Olivette would stand a great risk of becoming a total loss. There have been numerous instances of quite large vessels grounding in the estuary and heeling over and filling. You see the bore complicates matters."

"The bore, sir?" exclaimed Flemming.

"Yes, you'll make its acquaintance before very long," replied Mr. Armitage. "We'll get the tail end of it several times before we reach Rouen."

Just then the skipper of the Acacis arrived with a couple of "hands" to take the absent member of the crew back to the ship.

"Who was the Sea Scout who took to the ditch?" inquired the Old Man, after he had expressed his warmest thanks for the rescue and care of the man who had fallen overboard. "Wasn't much, eh? I don't know about that. I call it pretty plucky. I mean to report the circumstance to the Royal Humane Society when I get back—which may be in a couple of months or more. On this job one never knows when the trip's going to end."

The next caller was a Port official. To him Mr. Armitage handed a document, signed by the French Minister responsible for the splendidly organized inland waterways of the Republic. The paper was a permit for the Olivette to make use of the Tancarville Canal, and it was expressly stated that the passage through the locks was free.

"This is one of the things they do better in France," observed Mr. Armitage. "Not only do they provide a safe means of avoiding the dangerous estuary, but they grant us a free passage. If the canals of England were half as well looked after as they are on this side of the Channel——"

By six o'clock in the afternoon the Olivette had traversed four and a half kilometres of the canal, and had tied up for the night close to a "cut" leading to the town of Harfleur.

"We must see the sights of Harfleur," declared Mr. Armitage. "It is only a little town, but it's full of interest. You remember, perhaps, how it was besieged and captured by Henry V before he won the Battle of Agincourt."

Accordingly the dinghy was launched and manned. It was the first time the little craft had been used since the Olivette left Keyhaven, and even then, it was not absolutely necessary. The Sea Scouts could have landed and walked along the canal bank.

It was dark by the time they returned. Tom Boldrigg had lighted the cabin lamps, and had prepared supper. Eagerly, the hungry lads sat down to enjoy what promised to be an appetizing repast, but their anticipated pleasure failed in its realization.

The Olivette was invaded. Thousands of little green flies swarmed everywhere. The lamp glasses were thick with them; so much so, that in spite of frequent cleaning, the light was almost entirely obscured by the writhing insects. These covered the table, settled on the food and in the hot cocoa. In the circumstances, making a meal was out of the question.

"It's the light that does it," declared Boldrigg. "Put out the light an' the midges'll sheer off."

This suggestion was acted upon. In addition, the Olivette's riding lamp was hoisted to attract the flies. The result justified the experiment. As if by magic, the insects disappeared, leaving hundreds of small corpses in the cabin. Hungry, the crew had to make a sorry meal in the darkness, munching hard biscuits and trusting to luck that they were not swallowing dead flies; and in darkness, too, they sought their bunks.

At six the following morning, the "hands" were roused in true nautical style. It was a glorious morning, and the waters of the canal looked temptingly clean and fresh. Soon all the crew were swimming about, and so thoroughly did they enjoy it, that Mr. Armitage had difficulty in getting them to come out of the water.

Before breakfast could be served, Roche and Flemming had to walk into Harfleur to obtain fresh provisions, for everything of an edible nature on board had been spoiled by the flies.

While the two Sea Scouts were away on their errand the rest cleaned ship thoroughly, all hands hoping that a repetition of the visitation would not occur on the following night.

In about an hour Roche and Flemming returned, having had a successful marketing, in spite of the language difficulty. Their French was unintelligible to the Harfleur shopkeepers, and the patois of the latter equally so to the Sea Scouts, but by means of disjointed words and dumb show, Flemming and Roche had bought a goodly supply of necessaries.

"Another eleven miles before we're through the canal, lads," announced Mr. Armitage as the Olivette prepared to get under way. "You'll have to cut out a couple of cylinders, Roche, as we did in the Thames. Five miles an hour is the speed limit here."

It was not a case of plain seamanship. The traffic on the canal was heavy, comprising small steamships and barges. Most of the latter were motor-propelled, but several were towed by steam-tugs, often three abreast in a string. More than once the Olivette's stout rubbing-strake saved her from serious damage as the tail end of a line of barges took a sheer and swung nearly across the wide canal.

Kilometre after kilometre was passed, but the long, perfectly straight canal seemed to have no ending, until early in the afternoon the Olivette entered the Tancarville Lock, through which she had to pass to gain the River Seine.

"We've a hot tide against us, sir," remarked Peter when the boat was breasting the swift current of the river. "Oughtn't we to bring up until the flood sets in?"

"No," replied Mr. Armitage. "We must push on and try and reach Quillebeuf before then."

Stratton looked puzzled. Knowing the Scoutmaster's usual keenness in "working the tides", it seemed strange that he should show anxiety to proceed against a strong current; while, by waiting a few hours, the Olivette could easily make up for lost time by taking advantage of the flood tide.

"We have the bore to take into consideration," was Mr. Armitage's enigmatical answer. "Let her all out, Flemming, and keep within easy distance of the reversing-lever; it may be wanted in a hurry."

It took nearly an hour to cover the five and a half miles to Quillebeuf, but the Sea Scouts rather enjoyed the unusual scenery; Those not on duty were basking on deck until Mr. Armitage told them to go below.

As the lads scrambled down the iron ladder into the well, they heard a faint distant rumble.

"Thunder, by Jove!" exclaimed Warkworth.

In a few minutes the roar increased. It certainly was not thunder. The Sea Scouts looked at each other inquiringly.

They observed, also, that there was great activity on board the small boats at Quillebeuf. Men were busy casting off moorings and rowing the little craft into the centre of the stream.

Suddenly round a bend in the river, down-stream, a huge wall of water was seen approaching at a furious rate and breaking heavily against both banks. To the lads this moving mass appeared to be quite twenty feet high, but in reality it was about one third that height.

It was the bore, or "La Barre"—a tidal wave caused by the flood tide forcing its way into the funnel-shaped estuary and overwhelming the ebb.

"Hang on to something, all hands!" shouted Mr. Armitage. "Hard-a-starboard, Peter."

Round swung the Olivette until her bows pointed down-stream.

"Easy ahead!" was the next order.

Straight for the centre of the bow-shaped wall of water the staunch little craft headed. Into it she plunged, thrusting her bluff snout deep into the wave. A foaming torrent swept the foredeck, and, breaking against the wheel-house, flew high in the air in a cloud of spray.

For a few seconds it seemed as if the Olivette were standing on her heel. Her momentum was temporarily stopped. Somewhere below, the sound audible above the roar of the bore, came the crash of broken glass. Then with a dizzy, disconcerting movement the boat slid down the reverse side of the liquid wall into the agitated water beyond.

"There's another one, sir!" exclaimed Peter as soon as the moisture on the wheel-house windows cleared sufficiently to enable him to see ahead.

Three more times in quick succession the Olivette charged moving walls of roaring surf-crested water; then she found herself in a turmoil of dangerous waves, steep, irregular, and silent as they surged onwards in the wake of the bore. In a few moments the agitation died away; the Olivette ported helm, and, with a six-knot tide to aid her on her way, progressed rapidly up-stream.

"Jolly exciting, eh, what?" exclaimed Peter. "Does that happen twice every day, sir? If so, what do we do when there's a bore at night?"

"We'll certainly have a repetition of it," replied Mr. Armitage, "but I hope we'll be in fairly sheltered water to-night. We've struck it at rather an awkward time, as we're right on the top of the spring tides. At neaps the bore is hardly noticeable."

Before the tide changed again the Olivette had passed Caudebec and followed the wide and sharp curve that the Seine makes round the forest of Jumièges, and brought up off the little town of Duclair.

"We won't feel much of the bore here," said Mr. Armitage, when the Olivette had picked up a set of moorings lent by a courteous Frenchman. "It will be safe to leave the boat; so who's for the shore? A jolly good walk will do us good. Are you coming with us, Tom?"

Old Boldrigg expressed his readiness to go. Hitherto he had spent most of his time on board while the Olivette was in port.

"And what did you think of the bore, Mr. Boldrigg?" asked Peter, while the old seaman was changing into "shore rig".

"Not much, by a long chalk, Master Peter," was the reply. "When I saw that there a-bearing down on us, I wished I was properly afloat—plenty of sea-room, you'll understand. Rivers is all very well, but give me the deep sea—it's safer."

CHAPTER XIV

The Derelict

It was six o'clock when the "liberty men" landed on the quay at Duclair. Roche, Flemming, and Tenderfoot Rayburn, who had volunteered to remain on board as watch-keepers, went off with the others in order to bring back the dinghy.

"We'll be back at sunset, or soon after," said Mr. Armitage when the party had been safely landed.

"Aye, aye, sir," replied Roche. "We'll keep a look-out for you."

Returning on board, Roche made the dinghy fast, and hung a canvas bucket over the stern to prevent the little craft from bumping against the Olivette's counter, as the wind was against the tide.

"Now we're all snug, Phil," exclaimed Roche. "I'm going on deck to write letters."

"So am I," added the Tenderfoot.

"Then we can post them when we go ashore for the other fellows," said Roche.

Having attended to their home epistles, the two Sea Scouts read books until it was nearly sunset.

"Lay the table in the after-cabin, Phil," said his companion "I'll start up the stove. We'll have a jolly good feed ready for them when they return. They'll be here in twenty minutes or half an hour."

An hour passed, and no sign of the returning "liberty men". Roche took the hard-boiling kettle off the stove, lit the cabin lamp, and went on deck.

It was now quite dark, except for a few lights from the houses ashore and the distant gleam of the Fanal St. Paul against the sombre outlines of the Forêt du Trait.

The Tenderfoot, on his own initiative, had trimmed, lighted, and hoisted the riding-light.

"That's the sort!" exclaimed Roche approvingly. "You're getting quite a smart sailorman. How's the tide? Why, it's ebbing and we've swung down-stream."

"What's happened to the others, I wonder?" asked Rayburn, whose notions of a foreign country included danger for man and beast.

"Lost their way, perhaps," replied Roche. "'Twouldn't be the first time a Scout has done that, by any means. We'll hear them hail us very soon."

"P'r'aps Hepburn's been run in again," suggested Flemming, "and the others are trying to bail him out."

He looked meditatively over the side, and added:

"My word, isn't the tide running hard; I wouldn't like to have to go overboard on a dark night like this."

The ebb was now running at a good four knots, the water gurgling past the sides of the Olivette as she rode to her tautened mooring-bridle.

A tug, towing a train of barges, was laboriously creeping up-stream in an endeavour to make Rouen before morning. Farther down, the triple lights of a large steamer under way could be discerned rounding the bend abreast of Le Marais. Presently the red and green lights were extinguished. She had anchored for the night, preferring to negotiate the intricate channel by daylight.

"I'll get the dinghy alongside ready to go ashore," said Flemming. "She'll lie there quietly now we're head to wind."

"Don't forget to haul in the bucket," Roche reminded him, "or when we begin to row we'll be wondering what's wrong with the dinghy."

Eric brought the dinghy alongside on the starboard quarter and clambered on board.

"She'll do," he reported. "She's as quiet as a lamb. Wonder what those fellows are doing ashore? It's nearly midnight. You'd better turn in, Rayburn."

The Tenderfoot was about to go below, when he startled the others by exclaiming:

"What's that coming towards us?"

It was a heavily laden barge, drifting broadside on to the wind and tide. Already it was close upon the bows of the Olivette, its long, low-lying outlines grotesquely magnified in the darkness.

"She'll hit us!" shouted Roche. "Stand by and fend her off. Phil, put the helm hard over, and see if we can sheer clear of her."

Flemming and Roche ran for'ard, each with a boat-hook. They might as well have tried to stop an armoured car with a broomstick. Rayburn promptly put the helm hard over, but the scope of chain to which the Olivette was riding was not sufficient to enable her to sheer out of the course of the derelict barge.

The next moment the impact came. It was a severe shock, although the Olivette gave to the momentum of the barge. Round swung the latter under the irresistible strength of the tide, although her side was still grinding against the Olivette's stem.

"Look to the dinghy!" shouted Roche, still pushing with the boat-hook with all his strength.

Flemming realized the danger. Dropping his boat-hook, he raced aft, dropped into the dinghy, and began to cast off the painter.

[Illustration: THE DERELICT (missing from book)]

The rope—a new one—had swollen with the night dew. Before Eric could untie the stubborn clove-hitch, the barge, still swinging round, crashed heavily against the frail dinghy.

Nipped between the sides of the two larger craft, the dinghy was literally split asunder. Flemming barely contrived to jump upon the deck of the low-lying barge. A second or so later and he would have shared the fate of the dinghy.

Baffled by the darkness and by the fact that he was on a strange craft, Flemming attempted to run for'ard and regain the Olivette. Stumbling over a ring-bolt, he fell awkwardly upon the barge's waterways, and by the time he recovered himself the two craft had drifted apart.

He was marooned upon a derelict at the mercy of the swiftly running Seine.

It was a time of agonizing suspense for Dick Roche. He knew that his chum had gone to save the dinghy; he had heard the rending crash as the frail craft was nipped between the sides of the Olivette and the barge.

A prey to the liveliest apprehension, Dick ran aft, encountering the Tenderfoot, who, having placed the helm amidships, had hurried from the wheel-house.

"Where's Eric?" shouted Roche. "He was in the dinghy."

"On board the barge," replied Phil; "I saw him jump for it."

Roche ran aft and shouted. By this time the derelict had drifted so far that she was a mere shadow in the darkness.

"Ahoy!" came a faint shout, barely audible against the down-wind.

Dick hailed again, but Flemming's reply could not be heard.

"We'll have to get him off the barge somehow, Phil," declared Roche. "We can't wait for the others, and I don't know how they'll get on board. Now, look here: do you think you can manage the helm if I start up the motor?"

"I'll do my best," replied the Tenderfoot resolutely.

"You can't do more," rejoined Roche encouragingly. "So let's get to work and get about it."

The first task was to bring the painter of the crashed and water-logged dinghy for'ard and make it fast to the mooring-buoy. Then Roche and the Tenderfoot fixed the sidelights and got the engine going—the last was a fairly easy task, since the cylinders were still warm.

"Now," exclaimed Roche breathlessly, "go for'ard and cast off. By the time you're back at the wheel we'll have drifted astern and clear of the buoy. You're skipper now, Phil. Keep your head, and shout your orders clearly, and you'll do all right."

Making his way for'ard, the Tenderfoot managed to unfasten the heavy mooring-chain. The buoy disappeared overboard with a mighty splash, and the Olivette, with her engine running free, dropped astern, her head paying off to leeward as she did so.

Back to the wheel-house the Tenderfoot hurried. It was not exactly a novel sensation to steer, but it was to realize that he was now solely responsible for the direction and safety of the boat.

"Ahead!" shouted Phil in a shrill voice.

The Olivette quivered as Roche put in the clutch. Then, gathering way, she headed down-stream.

Roche kept her at "Easy ahead". With both hands resting on the top of the reversing-lever, he fixed his eyes upon the youthful helmsman. It was a daring experiment, but circumstances justified the risk. Flemming was in great danger, and that was sufficient reason.

Meanwhile the Tenderfoot had opened the for'ard windows of the wheel-house and was peering through the darkness. Nearly all the shore lights were now extinguished, but there were the lighthouses with their red and white lamps—those showing red being on the left, and the white on the right bank.

It took a great amount of careful handling to avoid the numerous boats anchored off Duclair. Beyond was the steamer that had brought up earlier in the evening.

The Olivette swept past within fifty yards of her. Not a soul was visible on deck, so it was safe to assume that the derelict barge had drifted past her without colliding with that vessel—otherwise there would have been great commotion on board.

Rayburn was beginning to think that in the darkness he had overtaken the barge without sighting her, when he heard a faint shout, just audible above the noise of the motor. There was no mistaking that shout: it was one of the Patrol cries of the Milford Sea Scouts.

A hundred yards or so on the Olivette's port bow was the barge, drifting broadside on to the current. Not so very far down-stream were three masthead lights, denoting that vessels were at anchor. Unless the derelict were promptly secured and towed out of the fairway there seemed no way of preventing the barge from crashing disastrously across the hawse of at least one of the three vessels.

"Stop!" ordered Phil, putting the helm over gently. "Touch astern."

In spite of his efforts the Olivette bumped heavily against the side of the barge. In a trice Hemming jumped and gained the Olivette's deck but not to stay. He too realized the danger of the heavily laden barge drifting upon the anchored ships. Picking up the bow-warp and taking a turn round the bitts, he jumped upon the deck of the barge and made the end of the warp secure to a bollard.

"Come on, you fellows," he shouted. "Bear a hand."

"Can't," replied Rayburn. "There are only two of us on board. Roche is at the motor and I at the wheel."

Making his way aft, Flemming took another warp on board, so that the Olivette was secured alongside the derelict.

"All fast!" he shouted as he regained the Olivette.

"Easy ahead!" ordered Phil. The initial excitement over, he was now as cool as the proverbial cucumber.

Very gently Roche let the clutch in, throttling well down so that the strain on the two hawsers would be taken up gradually and evenly. A sudden jerk might result in both ropes carrying away, in which case the barge would be foul of the anchored vessels before she could be again secured.

By this time the look-out on board the nearmost of the stationary craft realized that something was amiss. He began hailing in French, keeping up a torrent of exclamations until the Olivette and her tow were clear.

"What are we going to do with her?" asked Roche.

"Tow her clear of the fairway, I suppose," replied Flemming. "We can't stem this tide; that's a cert. She has an anchor on board, but it's too heavy for me to drop overboard single-handed, or I'd have done so long ago."

Slowly the Olivette with her tow moved towards the right bank, then, starboarding helm, she only just held her own against the swift current.

"Keep her like that!" shouted Flemming to the helmsman. "Now, Dick; you can leave the motor for a brace of shakes. Come and bear a hand with the mud-hook. Mind where you tread, old son; the barge is bunged up with things to trip you up. I've had some."

Even with their united efforts the two Sea Scouts were only just able to topple the ponderous mass of iron over the bows. Then, having paid out twenty fathoms of cable, the lads cast off both warps and jumped on board their own craft.

Roche immediately made his way to the engine-room. The clutch had not slipped, and the engine was still running in neutral, but the sight that met his eyes took him completely by surprise and filled him with dismay. The heavy flywheel was throwing up showers of water, and the engine-room looked as if one of the fountains of Trafalgar Square had suddenly been transplanted into the confined space.

"I say, you fellows!" he shouted. "One of you come down here as sharp as you can. She's sprung a leak."

CHAPTER XV

All Hands to the Pumps

Leaving the Tenderfoot at the helm, Flemming leapt into the well and thence into the engine-room.

"It must have been that biff when the barge fouled us!" he exclaimed. "Look! the floor-boards are awash!"

Eric went to the semi-rotary bilge-pump and began working the lever desperately. Meanwhile Rayburn had shouted for "Easy ahead."

The moment Roche put the engine in gear the Olivette "squatted", as she always did when under way; in other words, her bows rose and her stern dipped correspondingly. The result was that a lot of water that had found its way into the boat ran aft and the flywheel no longer gave an aquatic display, but subsequent examination found that the level of the bilge-water rose nearly six inches above the floor of the after-cabin.

Flemming kept on pumping for nearly twenty minutes, but the semi-rotary failed to "suck air". It seemed positive that the pump was unable to cope with the inflow of water.

"Where are we now?" he asked breathlessly.

Roche passed the question on to Phil Rayburn.

"Nearly there," replied the Tenderfoot. "It's slow work against the stream."

"We'll have to beach her, I'm afraid," said Flemming.

"No good doing that now," objected Roche; "she'd fill on the rising tide. Besides, if there's much of a bore here, she'd be damaged still more. You stand by here, old thing, and I'll give you a spell at the pump."

"We're nearly there," announced the Tenderfoot. "Who's going to pick up the moorings?"

Leaving Flemming at the reversing-lever, Roche "knocked off" pumping and went on deck. Boat-hook in hand, he waited to make a grasp at the mooring-buoy, to which was attached the water-logged planks and timbers of what had been a smart, serviceable dinghy.

"I bet that kid makes a bog of it," soliloquized Roche, who knew from personal experience how easy it is to blunder in picking up moorings.

But his fears were groundless. With a confidence inspired by previous success, Phil brought the Olivette to a standstill within a couple of feet of the mooring-buoy.

"Got it!" yelled Dick as he fished the cork float on board and took a turn round the bitts with the chain-bridle.

"Finished with the engines," shouted the Tenderfoot.

Flemming cut off the ignition. The motor clanked into a state of somnolence; then, having turned off the feed to the carburetter, Eric devoted his attention to the bilge-pump once more.

Presently Roche came below.

"There's not a sign of the others," he announced. "What on earth can have happened to them, I wonder? It's nearly half-past one."

He caught sight of Rayburn, who was stifling a yawn.

"You did jolly well, Phil!" he exclaimed. "We would have been in a pretty kettle of fish if you hadn't been here. But you're tired. How about turning in?"

"I'm not tired, really," protested the Tenderfoot. "I'll take a turn at the pump if you like."

"Right-o," agreed Dick. "We may have to have spells at it all night; but I think I'll try to find out where it's coming in and have a go at stopping it."

Switching on his electric torch, Roche squeezed through the small doorway between the engine-room and the forepeak. He could hear an ominous trickle coming from the neighbourhood of the chain-locker.

Investigations resulted in the discovery that the Olivette's bows had been badly damaged in spite of the partial protection afforded by the "pudding" fender. Several planks had been started on either side of the stem, and although most of the damage was above water-line, there was a considerable leak where a seam or two had burst.

Procuring some grease and cotton-waste, Dick proceeded to caulk the faulty seams, but his efforts in that direction were rewarded with poor success. It was impracticable to use any degree of force, because the fastenings of the planks were in such a weak state that the planks themselves began to give; and without ramming the caulking well home, the cotton-waste would not remain in position.

"Better let well alone," decided Roche. "It's jolly tedious work manning the pump, but we'll keep the old hooker afloat."

Having reported the result of his investigations, Roche proposed that each of the three Sea Scouts should take fifteen-minute tricks at the pump.

"That will give each of us half-an-hour spells," he added. "One or both of the others can stop on deck to keep a look-out for the liberty men."

"P'r'aps they are not 'liberty men' any longer," remarked Flemming. "It's jolly rummy that they haven't shown up before this. Right-o, Dick; I'll take on with the pumping."

Roche and the Tenderfoot went on deck. The tide was still ebbing. The wind had dropped, and hardly a sound disturbed the stillness of the night except the ripple of the water against the Olivette's bows, and the monotonous chug-chug of the semi-rotary pump.

A steamer's navigation lights appeared up-stream. She was heading towards the anchored Olivette. Rayburn glanced at his companion.

"It's all right," said Dick reassuringly. "She's coming round a bend; that's why she appears end on. She'll starboard her helm in half a tick."

But the vessel held on until even Roche began to think that there would be a collision. He glanced aloft to make sure that the Olivette's riding-lamp was burning brightly.

The steamer reversed engines, and lost way within twenty yards of the Olivette. A hoarse voice hailed in an unintelligible patois. Dick caught but two words, "gabare" and "abandonnée".

"A l'ancre.... A l'autre côté.... Sept kilomètres en bas," replied Roche, guessing that the strange craft was the tug they had seen earlier in the night, and that, having missed one of her charges, had returned in search of the derelict barge.

To his no small satisfaction, Roche found that his halting reply was understood, for, with a "Merci beaucoup, m'sieu", the skipper of the tug rang for full speed ahead.

Barely was the steamboat out of sight when the Olivette began to rock violently. It was not the swell of the tug that had caused the commotion; it was the turn of the tide and the tail-end of the bore in a succession of waves of about four feet in height.

The erratic rolling and pitching alarmed Flemming considerably, for the water in the bilges gushed between the floor-boards and swirled ankle-deep from side to side.

"She's leaking fast," he shouted.

Roche went below. Already the water was subsiding into the bilges, but it was evident that, in spite of continuous work at the pump, the leak was not being kept under.

"It'll be as much as we can do to keep going till daylight," declared Flemming as he "handed over" to his chum. "The best thing we can do is to get a bucket going. I'll bale, and pass the bucket up to Phil for him to sling overboard."

"Good idea," agreed Roche, turning up his sleeves and grasping the handle of the pump. "We'll keep her afloat, old thing, even if it snows ink."

CHAPTER XVI

The Adventures of the "Liberty Men"

The "liberty men" had rather overdone things. Their ramble through the Forest of Jumièges was too much of an undertaking for the short space of time at their disposal.

Twilight overtook them almost before they were aware of the fact, and long before they were clear of the forest it was pitch dark.

"If we keep on in a straight line," declared Mr. Armitage, "we'll strike the river somewhere. Now, you woodcraftsmen, lead on, or we'll get no supper to-night."

It was easy to say "Keep in a straight line", but the accomplishment was difficult. Not only was the ground thickly covered with trees—it was hilly, and in places rugged. The recognized methods failed. The Sea Scouts knew that the wind was an easterly one, but in the depth of the forest there was no appreciable air-current. The foliage overhead hid the stars, so another guide was denied the benighted lads.

"Moss and lichen always grow on the north side of a tree-trunk," quoted Hepburn. "Where's your torch, Peter? Shine it this way."

An examination not only of one, but of many tree-trunks, resulted in the discovery that mosses and lichen were not in evidence. The third clue had also let the Sea Scouts down.

"Carry on, then," suggested Mr. Armitage, "until we find a path. It's bound to lead somewhere."

It took twenty minutes' steady progress through the undergrowth before they found a path. It was narrow and apparently unfrequented. Once a big animal—about the size of a bullock, declared Warkworth—crashed through the brushwood about ten feet ahead of the lads.

"We must have tramped miles," declared Woodleigh. "I believe we're going round in circles."

"I fancy we're nearly out of the wood," said the Scoutmaster. "I can feel a breeze. Yes, I thought so."

The edge of the forest at last. It was now nearly eleven o'clock. Far below could be discerned the sinuous course of the River Seine. Nearer, and at a fair distance down the hill, lights gleamed from a small village.

"That must be Le Mesnil," decided Mr. Armitage, after he had consulted a map by the aid of an electric torch. "It's all plain sailing now. We'll follow the river bank. It's only six miles to Duclair. Come on: Scouts' pace, forward."

Encouraged by the Scoutmaster's example, the tired and hungry lads bucked up considerably. Alternately walking and running fifty paces they covered the intervening distance in an hour and twenty minutes, arriving at the landing-place at a quarter past twelve. Old Boldrigg, now sure of his bearings, followed at a leisurely pace.

"Olivette ahoy!" shouted Peter.

There was no reply save the mocking echoes of his voice from the opposite bank. He hailed again, giving the Patrol cry.

"The lazy blighters have turned in," he declared, and hailed for the third time.

"Where's her riding-lamp?" asked Alan. "I believe she's gone—broken adrift, or something."

Mr. Armitage already had his doubts on the subject. Bringing out his night-glasses, he focused them on the spot where the Olivette ought to have been moored. With difficulty he located the vacant buoy, to which was attached something low in the water and straining in the strong tide-way.

"The Olivette isn't there," he declared. "I don't think she's broken adrift, or the mooring-buoy would have gone with her. I hope Roche hasn't got into a panic about our late arrival and gone off in search of us."

"He couldn't expect to find us in the river, sir," remarked Woodleigh.

"S'pose not," admitted Mr. Armitage. "But to get down to rock-bottom facts, the Olivette's not on the moorings and we're benighted."

"Perhaps she was in a prohibited anchorage, sir," suggested Peter, "and the River Police have shifted her."

"No, I inquired if she would be all right there," replied the Scoutmaster. "She can't be very far away. Roche would have dropped the anchor when he found her adrift. Anyone too tired to join in the search? How about you, Mr. Boldrigg?"

"I am a bit, sir," admitted the old man, who had just rejoined the others. "But it ain't no good hangin' on to the slack when there's a hammock waiting for me on board. So the sooner we find the hooker the better for everyone, says I."

The Sea Scouts retraced their way, keeping to the bank of the river. There were a few craft under way, but in the darkness it was impossible to distinguish what they were.

It must have been soon after 2 a.m. that the search-party arrived at the village of Jumièges. Here, fortunately a rowing boat containing a belated fishing-party had just returned.

In answer to Mr. Armitage's inquiry, the four people who had just landed—they were Parisian art-students on holiday—all replied at once.

"Yes, monsieur, we did see a motor-boat. She passed close, very close, to our little boat. She was towing a large lighter."

The Scoutmaster felt disappointed.

"I am afraid that is not the motor-boat we are looking for," he said. "Did you happen to notice any of the crew?"

"I did, monsieur," declared one of the men. "There was but one visible. He wore a blue blouse and a white hat—so. Like these messieurs here. The light shone from below upon him, understand; therefore I could discern. She was going towards Duclair."

"A white boat with a deck-house, sir," corroborated one of his companions, tracing an outline with his finger. "Towards the front one little mast but no funnel. Monsieur is benighted? Then perhaps he would care to accompany us to our lodgings for refreshments."

Mr. Armitage demurred, but the students were pressing in their invitation. Accordingly the whole party went into the village, and the Sea Scouts found themselves in strange surroundings—a cabaret.

The landlord rose to the occasion. The sight of a couple of grown Englishmen and four English Sea Scouts provoked no comment. In five minutes the hungry search-party were sitting down to hot coffee and biscuits, a long roll, and plenty of fresh Normandy butter.

"That is our affair, monsieur," protested one of the students when Mr. Armitage offered to pay for the refreshment. "When I was a poilu of the 141st Regiment we were once on the left of an English battalion. We were hungry and they were well fed—merely a matter of commissariat, monsieur—and when they found out we were famished, half their rations were passed into our trench. Monsieur has served, of course?"

Greatly refreshed, the Sea Scouts bade their hospitable hosts farewell, and set out to retrace their way back to Duclair.

"Guess we know the way by this time," remarked Peter. "Three times in one night is about the limit. Do we turn out at seven to-morrow—or rather, to-day, sir?"

"We're not on board yet, Peter," rejoined the Scoutmaster. "But I think I'm safe in saying that we'll keep to our hammocks till noon."

But Mr. Armitage's surmise was out, absolutely out. Grey dawn was showing in the north-eastern sky when the footsore party arrived on the quay at Duclair. There in the dim light was the Olivette riding to the flood-tide. In the stillness of the early morning could be heard the regular pulsations of the hand-pump, while at intervals one of her crew—it was not light enough to distinguish who it was—was toppling pailfuls of water over the side.

"Olivette, ahoy!"

This time the hail was answered promptly. Out of the deep, open well clambered Roche and Flemming slowly and laboriously, for they were pretty well done up with their night of strenuous toil.

"They seem in no hurry to come for us," observed Warkworth, "after we've trudged all the blessed night."

"Ahoy, there!" shouted Roche. "Can you find someone to put you off? We've no dinghy."

"Then they have had a mishap," declared Warkworth. "I believe I can see the dinghy astern. She's waterlogged."

The difficulty that now arose was how to get on board. There were dozens of small boats off Duclair, but no one was about.

"We'll take French leave," decided Mr. Armitage. "Since we are in France, I take it that in the circumstances it is permissible. Find a boat with detachable bottom-boards. We can paddle her out all right, and return her when the owner shows up."

This suggestion was acted upon. The "liberty men" crowded into the borrowed boat and made their way to the Olivette with but little difficulty, for the flood-tide was easing off considerably.

The Sea Scouts looked grave when the nature of the damage was pointed out to them. Would it be possible to continue their trip with a boat in that condition?

"But we've kept her afloat, sir," declared Flemming triumphantly, as he displayed his blistered hands. "We've done enough pumping to be excused duty for the rest of the voyage."

Roche, from below, added:

"We're keeping the leak under and no more, sir. If we knock off for even a minute the water rises over the floor boards."

"Then it's about time we came," rejoined Mr. Armitage. "We're nearly on the top of high water. Directly it's slack tide, we'll cast off and warp into that shipbuilder's yard at the head of the quay. Until the Olivette is high and dry we cannot see the full extent of the damage."

An hour later the Olivette was safely placed upon the slipway. Two very serious-looking Frenchmen conferred between themselves, shaking their heads and gesticulating as they examined the damaged bows. The stem-piece was fractured in two places, the cracks extending diagonal fashion. Four of the planks above water-line and two below had been "started", and from the bows to a distance of ten feet aft the caulking had been forced from the seams. Had it not been for the big "pudding" fender, the Olivette might have sunk within a few minutes of the collision.

Mr. Armitage anxiously awaited their verdict, so did several of the crew, but Roche, Flemming, and Rayburn were sleeping the sleep of utter exhaustion.

"It is a bad business," declared one of the Frenchmen. "We have not the material for executing repairs here. It will be necessary to proceed up to Rouen, where, at the chantier of Declos et Cie., the work can be executed in a proper manner. Meanwhile we ourselves will stop the leak temporarily, so that your little vessel will, with safety, make the passage to Rouen."

He was as good as his word. Procuring some white lead, canvas, and a sheet of zinc, he contrived to patch up the gaping planks, so that they no longer let in the water; for, when the Olivette was launched again, it was as tight as a boat could be.

When Mr. Armitage asked for the bill, the little Frenchman shrugged his shoulders.

"I am but a poor man, monsieur," said the latter, "and these are hard times. Nevertheless, I, who have been a sailor, would not gain my bread by overcharging foreign sailormen in difficulties. It is but a small thing that we have done, monsieur, merely a matter of white lead and canvas. I therefore charge you twenty francs."

The Scoutmaster looked at him in astonishment. Allowing for the present value of the franc, the cost was a little over ten shillings. Mentally he contrasted the sum with the extortionate bills for shipwright's work on the other side of the English Channel, and he no longer wondered why the British merchant ships cross over to French ports to be "reconditioned".

He paid up willingly, adding five francs as a pourboire, and, with the wreckage of the dinghy hoisted on deck, the Olivette resumed her eventful pilgrimage.

CHAPTER XVII

Monsieur Raoul

As it was only a distance of thirty-five kilometres, or, roughly, 23 miles, Mr. Armitage decided to bring up on moorings off Duclair until the tide changed. This would enable the crew to make up arrears of sleep, or, at any rate, go a long way towards doing so, while, with the favourable tide, the boat ought to arrive at Rouen early in the afternoon.

The Scoutmaster was dubious as to what would happen when the Olivette did arrive there. It looked as if the cruise would have to terminate abruptly, while to repair the damage would probably eat up the whole of the Troop's finances.

He said nothing of this to the lads under his care.

He was content to let events shape their course, and not to meet trouble half-way. The youngsters were enjoying themselves, and he would not place their pleasures under a cloud by as much as hinting that the cruise of the Olivette would be drastically curtailed.

It was a picturesque stretch of the river that confronted the Sea Scouts when the voyage was resumed. The Seine made a huge U-shaped bend, almost encircling the Forest of Roumare on the port hand, and skirting the Forests of Mauny and du Rouvray to starboard. On either bank were numerous villages, while occasionally small islands were passed.

The Olivette was abreast of the Obelisk at Le Val de la Haye, when her crew noticed a weird sort of craft approaching at tremendous speed. At first the Sea Scouts could not make head or tail of it. There was hardly anything to be seen but a triangular girder appearing above the apex of a double crest of spray, but the noise the quaint craft made was terrific.

"It's driven by an aerial propeller," declared Peter. "I can see the glint on the blades as they revolve."

Approaching at a rate of about forty-five miles an hour, the vessel passed the Olivette "like a streak of greased lightning". That was Hepburn's definition.

As she passed, the Sea Scouts saw that she was a hydro-glisseur, her hull composed of three rectangular floats in line ahead and supporting an aluminium cabin. Right aft was the motor with a triple chain-driven air propeller. In the bows a tiny Tricolour stood out stiffly in the breeze. Her crew consisted of two people—one, a bareheaded mechanic, wearing a blue overall, the other, a youngish man, the outstanding features of his costume being a velour Alpine hat, with a tuft of feathers, and a pair of light-yellow kid gloves.

Noticing the Red Ensign flying on board the Olivette, the Frenchman took off his hat and made an elaborate bow. Not to be outdone in politeness, the Scoutmaster gave the order, "Alert!" and while the crew stood to attention he saluted the owner of the glisseur in scout fashion.

"We ought to have dipped our ensign, I suppose," remarked Stratton.

"There wasn't time," rejoined Woodleigh. "He passed before you could count five."

"He's turning!" exclaimed Alan. "I say, what a heel! Oh, look! she's over!"

Hepburn's exclamation directed the attention of all hands aft. Even Flemming, who was in the wheel-house, allowed the Olivette to swing a couple of points out of her course as he looked astern.

The air-propelled craft, extremely sensitive to her helm, had made too sharp a turn, or perhaps the mechanic had not slowed down the motor sufficiently. In any case she capsized. For a moment, quite two-thirds of the under-surface of the floats was exposed. Then, with a rending crash, the rapidly-revolving propeller blades hit the water and were shattered into splinters. The next instant the violently racing engine dipped beneath the surface. A cloud of steam, as the water came into contact with the hot cylinders, momentarily hid the scene of the disaster.

Flemming acted promptly. Spinning the wheel hard over, and shouting to his chum, Roche, to slow down, he brought the Olivette's bows on to the spot where the glisseur had disappeared on an unpremeditated submarine excursion.

The owner of the vanished craft was with difficulty swimming towards his mechanic, who, unable to keep afloat, had sunk for the second time.

The Frenchman was obviously handicapped, because he made no attempt to use his left arm, but, arriving over the place where the air-bubbles marked the presence of the unfortunate mechanic, he dived to the latter's rescue.

The pair reappeared together, the mechanic desperately grasping his master round the neck. With a sudden wrench the latter shook himself partly clear, then, with a short quick jab with his right fist, the Frenchman hit the struggling man a stunning blow on the left temple, grasped him by the collar of his overalls, and waited the arrival of the Olivette.

Quickly the pair were hauled on board. Three of the Sea Scouts immediately set to work to resuscitate the half-drowned mechanic, while the others, in their imperfect French, offered their services to the owner of the lost craft.

The Frenchman bowed. He had lost his hat.

"Permettez-moi, messieurs!" he exclaimed, and gravely produced a saturated visiting-card on which were the words "Raoul de la Voie, Chevalier de la Légion d'Honneur".

Mr. Armitage suggested to his involuntary guest that perhaps the crew of the Olivette might conduct salvage operations. The boat had stopped, with her engines running well throttled down, close to the place where the hydro-glisseur had disappeared, a ready clue being afforded by the oil rising in a steady, far-spreading stream to the surface.

Monsieur de la Voie listened with perfect gravity to the Scoutmaster's halting attempt to put his thoughts into words in the French language. Mr. Armitage "stuck" badly. His vocabulary was usually good, but at the present time he had the greatest difficulty in finding his words, and his dictionary was in one of his portmanteaux in the after-cabin.

"Excuse me," remarked the Frenchman, with an almost perfect English accent, "but if you will kindly talk in English, no doubt I will be able to follow you better."

"Thanks awfully," replied Mr. Armitage, falling back upon his mother-tongue. Then he added gravely, "I hope you are feeling quite chirpy now."

"Chirpy?" queried the Frenchman.

"Chirpy—bucked," prompted the Scoutmaster.

Monsieur de la Voie's face wore a puzzled expression. But he would not admit defeat, for, producing a saturated pocket-dictionary, he looked up the perplexing words.

"Ah, yes," he continued, with a smile. "I'm feeling absolutely top-hole, thank you, notwithstanding an unusual style of bathing in the Seine. Salvage? Hardly necessary to trouble you, sir; you've done quite enough for us as it is, but if you will buoy the spot, one of my barges will conduct the operations. If you will be good enough to give my mechanic and me a passage to Rouen?"

Monsieur Raoul was little worse for his immersion, but the condition of the luckless mechanic gave rise to grave misgivings. Not only had he swallowed a liberal quantity of water: his knee had been hurt by coming in contact with the girder supporting the aerial propeller, while, to make matters worse, his master had been compelled to stun him in order to free himself from his dangerous clutch.

The owner of the hydro-glisseur was greatly interested in the Sea Scouts and their craft. He plied the lads with innumerable questions, and complimented them upon their sound knowledge of seamanship.

Very little escaped the notice of the mercurial Frenchman, and when he caught sight of the scars upon the Olivette's bows he asked how the damage had been caused.

"And this happened last night, then? It is just possible that I know who is the owner of the barge that caused the mischief."

"He is a careless blighter, sir, whoever he is, to let a barge break adrift," declared Hepburn.

"Yes," assented Monsieur de la Vole solemnly. "He is."

CHAPTER XVIII

Shore Quarters

In spite of the delay occasioned by the rescue of the crew of the hydro-glisseur, the Olivette's run up to Rouen was accomplished by four o'clock in the afternoon. The historic old town, viewed from the river, interested the lads beyond measure, while the sight of the transporter-bridge, a structure one hundred and seventy feet above the water, and supporting a travelling car that served as a ferry, appealed to their mechanical instincts.

"Where do you propose going to for repairs?" asked Monsieur de la Voie.

"We were recommended to the Chantier Declos," replied Mr. Armitage.

The Frenchman smiled. "You could not have been better recommended," he remarked. "It happens that I keep my private boats in that yard. There it is: on your left hand just beyond that crane."

The Olivette was safely berthed, and the French mechanic, who was able to walk with assistance, was sent ashore. His condition excited a fair amount of sympathy and curiosity on the part of the workmen; but when Monsieur de la Voie jumped on to the quay his reception was exuberant.

"One would think they were all touched," remarked Roche.

The workpeople were crowding round and literally mobbing de la Voie, talking so quickly that the Sea Scouts were unable to understand a single sentence.

Presently the owner of the hydro-glisseur obtained a certain amount of silence, and, beckoning to one of the men, led him aside. For some minutes the pair conversed heatedly, Monsieur de la Voie smiting the open palm of his left hand with his fist, while the other man shrugged his shoulders and extended his hands. At length the latter, evidently unable to hold his own, changed his tone completely. He appeared to be pleading and expressing regrets. Monsieur de la Voie dismissed him, and returned to the quayside, where the Olivette lay.

"I have found out for you who is the cause of your misfortune. That man is the captain of the tug drawing the barges, and the rearmost barge broke her tow-rope and ran into your yacht."

"Then he is the careless blighter, monsieur," said Hepburn.

Raoul de la Voie shook his head.

"No, no," he remarked emphatically. "He asked for a new tow-rope two weeks ago, and the owner neglected to supply him with one. So it is the owner who is the careless blighter, n'est-ce pas?"

"I should think so, monsieur," agreed Alan. "Do you know who he is?"

De la Voie laughed.

"Mais oui," he replied. "C'est moi—I am the careless blighter."

Hepburn coloured up and said nothing. The Frenchman eyed him curiously for some minutes, and then slapped the lad on the shoulder.

"There is no harm done," he exclaimed. "It is a joke. Let me explain. I am the actual owner of the Chantier Declos, and these are my barges. Therefore I am responsible for the damage done to your Olivette, and I must needs make reparation. I have sent for my foreman to come and make a report, and put the work in hand at once."

"Awfully sporting of you, monsieur," said Roche.

"It is a duty," declared Monsieur de la Voie.

Presently the foreman arrived, and at his suggestion the Olivette was placed in a cradle and hauled up the slipway. Raoul de la Voie received his subordinate's report and translated it for the benefit of the crew.

"Your yacht will require a new stem-piece, breast-hook, and seven new planks forward," he announced. "There will also be several seams to require caulking, and, of course, painting and varnishing. My foreman says he hopes to complete the repairs in a week or ten days."

The news was received with mixed feelings by the Sea Scouts. They were delighted to know that the grim shadow of a very heavy bill had vanished, since the genial Frenchman had willingly acknowledged his liability. But a week or ten days! That meant a drastic curtailment of the cruise. It would be impossible, in view of the delay, to carry out the programme.

"We'll have to cut out the Paris trip, lads," said Mr. Armitage.

Poor old Tom Boldrigg looked very much down in the mouth. The decision meant a lot to him. The opportunity of paying a visit to the grave of his soldier son was now denied him.

"Paris?" echoed Raoul. "Why not? Is it absolutely necessary that you proceed by water?"

"Yes, if we went at all," replied Mr. Armitage. "By living on board we could manage the visit without much expense. Living at an hotel in Paris is beyond our means. However, we are more fortunate than I expected. We might have had to return home with empty pockets."

"But you cannot well live on board your yacht while the repairs are in hand," said Monsieur de la Voie.

"I suppose that's so," agreed Mr. Armitage. "With planks out, and wet paint about, life on board wouldn't be exactly comfortable. Perhaps we might hire a fairly large tent and camp out somewhere away from the town?"

"I think it could be arranged," replied Raoul. "Since I am greatly in your debt for saving the life of my man Pierre, and for pulling me out of the Seine, it would be a great pleasure to me if you would be my guests. My home is at Tourville-la-Rivière, about ten kilometres up the Seine. There I can provide a tent, and if the weather be unpropitious there is plenty of room in the house."

The Scoutmaster gratefully accepted the invitation on behalf of the lads and himself.

"And," continued his host, "there is no reason why you should not visit Paris. Although I cannot well afford the time to go with you, I can arrange for my car to take you to the city, and perhaps you might like a tour of the battle-fields."

"Which ones, please, sir?" asked Tom Boldrigg eagerly.

"The Aisne and the Marne," replied Monsieur de la Voie. "Why do you inquire so?"

"Because, sir," replied the old seaman, "I lost a lad on the Marne."

The demonstrative Frenchman grasped Tom's hand.

"And I lost my only brother," he said. "We were on the right of a British division. Their dash was magnificent. Yes, I remember the crossing of the Marne. It was there that I gained this and lost that."

With a quick, almost apologetic gesture, he touched the ribbon of the Legion d'Honneur and then his arm. For the first time the Sea Scouts saw that he had an artificial hand.

"So now," he continued briskly, "all is practically arranged. If you will collect what baggage you require, my car will be here at six o'clock. Meanwhile, excuse me; there are certain business matters to which I have to attend."

Punctually at the hour, Monsieur de la Voie arrived in a magnificent touring-car. He had changed his saturated clothes, and was dressed in a suit of British cut and material.

Behind the car came a workmanlike equipage—a Daimler with a commercial body. Into the latter the Sea Scouts piled their kitbags and other gear, Roche and Rayburn being told off to act as baggage-guards.

"A low-down trick to do us out of a ride in a top-hole car," declared Dick, laughing. It was an enjoyable journey, but the thing that impressed the lads most was the fact that the traffic kept to the right-hand side of the road. They had noticed this—the Continental rule—before, but it was the first time that they had been in a vehicle in France.

"If I had to ride a push-bike out here," declared Warkworth, "I'd barge into everything, 'cause I'd simply have to keep to the left. And don't the motors look weird with the left-hand drive?"

The journey was over only too soon, for in less than ten minutes from the time the car left the shipyard, Monsieur Raoul pulled up outside a large house standing in extensive grounds that sloped towards the river.

"There is your tent," he said, pointing to a fairly spacious marquee pitched on high ground about two hundred yards from the house. "I telephoned to my steward to have it pitched at once. But first let us have dinner."

Somewhat awed, the Sea Scouts filed into a big, gorgeously furnished room, where they were introduced to Madame de la Voie and Madame Ledoux, Raoul's belle-mère.

Dignified-looking men-servants handed round the various courses, the nature of most of the dishes being utterly strange to the Sea Scouts. But even their unfounded misgivings failed to blunt their keen appetites. Stolidly, and almost in silence, they applied themselves to the food, while Mr. Armitage chatted to his host and hostess.

When at length the Sea Scouts proceeded to their shore sleeping-quarters, they found that there was a camp-bed provided for each of the crew, and that their kit had been stacked ready for their use.

"We've fallen on our feet," declared Woodleigh, as he turned in.

"You speak for yourself, young fellah-me-lad!" rejoined Roche. "It isn't usual to fall on your feet when you sleep. This is the proper way—on one's side."

Deftly Dick dived between the sheets; the camp-bed tilted sideways, and the next instant Roche was lying on the grassy floor of the tent.

Shrieks of laughter arose from his companions, even Mr. Armitage joining in the mirth at the expense of the discomfited exponent of the art of "turning in". Without a word Roche picked up his blankets and remade the bed, then, exercising great caution, he got in again.

"Someone must have capsized me," he soliloquized. "If it weren't for the fact that we're not in our own quarters, I'd get my own back."

Ten minutes later most of the lads were asleep. Roche drowsily turned over, when to his surprise the camp-bed again deposited its occupant upon the ground.

This time all lights were out, and no one saw Dick's unpremeditated tumble. Mystified, he groped for his bedding and once more turned in.

At seven the lads were aroused by the old sea-cry of, "Show a leg and shine!" Already the sun was pouring down upon the dew-covered canvas. In the woods near by the birds were singing blithely.

"Been digging yourself in, Dick?" asked Hepburn.

"No—why?" asked Roche.

Alan pointed to Dick's bed. The wooden trestles had sunk a good foot into the ground. The mystery of Dick's double eviction was solved. The camp-bed had been placed immediately above a mole's tunnel, and, as the earth gave way, the bed had tilted sufficiently to deposit its occupant upon the ground.

"I thought that you had had a hand in it," declared Roche. "But come-back-all-I-said. Who's cook? Where's the galley?"

No one knew. The mess-traps had been brought ashore, but apparently their host had made no provision for cooking breakfast.

"We're in France, remember," said Mr. Armitage, "and in France we must to a certain extent do as France does. The first meal of the day—petit dejeuner it's called—is a very light repast—usually coffee, roll, and butter."

"Oh, I say!" ejaculated the Tenderfoot ruefully. He had a typical British appetite, and always went all-out for a good breakfast. "And I'm so hungry."

The Sea Scouts washed and dressed with special care. Somehow they felt that they must appear "extra smart" as the guests of Monsieur Raoul. By eight o'clock the interior of the marquee was cleaned up and the bedding aired and folded; but no signs of a galley-fire were forthcoming. The lads were reconciling themselves to a cold meal of bread and tinned beef when a man-servant appeared and announced:

"Ze breakfast: he is served in ze house, messieurs."

Monsieur de la Voie was not one who did things by halves, for when the Sea Scouts trooped into the house they found their host awaiting them and the table spread with an appetizing meal consisting of coffee, new steaming rolls, fresh butter, eggs, and a large piece of delicious ham.

Bidden to "tuck in", the lads obeyed with the greatest zest, to the undisguised astonishment of the servants, to whom the sight of half a dozen healthy young Britons devouring large quantities of food so early in the day was a decidedly novel one.

"What is your programme for to-day?" inquired Monsieur Raoul. "As matters stand, the position is this: you are my guests for ten days, but I want you to have full liberty of action. You will, of course, want to watch the progress of the repairs, and no doubt will want to explore the surrounding country. I assure you it has its good points. Then, again, there are the projected visits to Paris and to the Marne. These will take at least three days. It is for you to say when you will go."

Mr. Armitage warmly thanked his host.

"The weather seems settled," he added; "perhaps it would be advisable to take advantage of it while it is fine. So if your chauffeur could run us into Paris——?"

"Certainly," rejoined Monsieur de la Voie.

CHAPTER XIX

Homeward Bound

The crew of the Olivette had a splendid time in Paris, but, since they met with no adventures and had no scouting, their visit can be lightly passed over.

They were two days in the French capital, and enjoyed every minute of the time. Their programme was an ambitious one, carried out at high pressure. So much so that the Sea Scouts were so excited and tired upon their return to Tourville-la-Rivière that they were compelled to "slack" for the whole of the following day.

Then came the long-looked-for tour of the battle-fields.

The day was warm and sultry, but the ride in the powerful car as it rushed at high speed along the tree-bordered roads was simply exhilarating.

Old Tom Boldrigg, rigged out in his shore-going kit, was tightly grasping the bundle done up in the blue handkerchief that he had brought on board at Keyhaven. Except on the occasion when the kit was transferred from the Olivette to Tourville-la-Rivière, no one had set eyes on the bundle until now. It rather puzzled his companions, and certainly aroused their curiosity; but Tom offered no solution to the mystery, and the lads refrained from questioning him about it.

At Senlis traces of the Hunnish invaders were apparent, although much had been done by the industrious inhabitants to rebuild their shattered dwellings and efface the devastating traces of war. From that town right on to Château-Thierry the countryside was fast recovering from the effects of four and a half years' desolation. Those of the shell-torn trees which had not been uprooted were hiding their scars under new foliage. The gaunt expanse of crater-pitted land was covered with ripening corn. Only in places was it possible to follow the sinuous course of the trenches, while here and there a system of dug-outs had been left practically intact as a reminder of the period when that part of France was under the heel of the Prussian invader.

It was a soul-stirring episode for the Sea Scouts. They were shown the spot where the British engineers built bridges, under a terrific fire, to enable the remnants of the Old Contemptibles to cross the Marne and deal von Kluck's army corps a staggering blow. The line of advance of General Gallieni's army, rushed up from Paris in a motley collection of taxi-cabs in the nick of time to stem the Prussian advance upon the capital, was pointed out to them.

Then to the huge cemetery, where thousands of British lads are laid to rest, in French soil that is British by sentiment. Here the Olivette's party was met by a courteous official, who, in answer to old Boldrigg's inquiry, led the way to a remote portion of the vast burial-ground.

"Perhaps, Mr. Boldrigg," suggested the Scoutmaster, "you would like us to leave you for a few minutes."

"No, no, sir," replied the old man. "What I'm going to do isn't anything to be ashamed of."

He was visibly affected, although he tried to conceal his emotion. He had completed a pilgrimage that had been the wish of his declining years, and which might never have been accomplished but for the assistance of the Sea Scouts.

Standing bareheaded, the lads saw their old friend slowly untie the blue handkerchief from the bundle. Then he produced a small plant, its roots carefully protected with damp moss and straw.

"Straight from the garden at home," he said. "An' my boy was that fond of flowers."

"It will be watered carefully," promised the cemetery official.

"Thank you, sir," replied old Boldrigg gratefully, and, his mission accomplished, he turned slowly away.

* * * * *

On the ninth day of her compulsory detention at Rouen the Olivette renewed her acquaintance with her natural element.

The work of repair had been performed smartly and well, and the bows were as sound as ever. She had been given a complete coat of paint that glistened in the bright sunshine.

"Now, lads," began Mr. Armitage, when the crew had re-embarked and stowed away their gear, "we have to go into matters pretty closely. By next Saturday Stratton will have to be home if he's to keep that appointment with the Steamship Company on Monday week. We have five clear days to spare. What is to be the programme?"

"Take advantage of the weather while it is fine, sir, and return by easy stages."

"Quite a good idea," concurred Mr. Armitage. "It often happens that, when a cruise has to be completed by a certain time, a homeward start is deferred until the last possible moment. Then the weather may be boisterous, and the crew are 'in the soup'. Either they have to overstay their time, or else they've got to make a dash for it, at great inconvenience and possible risk."

"After all, sir," remarked Peter, "although we haven't carried out our programme exactly as we planned, it has been a rattling good holiday."

"And it's not over yet," added Hepburn.

At two in the afternoon the Olivette got under way. On the coach-roof over the engine-room she carried a new "twelve-foot" dinghy—a gift from Monsieur Raoul to replace the one they had lost in collision with the barge.

Their host came on board to wish them bon voyage, and, at the Sea Scouts' invitation, he agreed to go as a passenger as far as Caudebec.

"I am hoping," he said, "to raise a troop of Sea Scouts at Rouen. The only difficulty that presents itself is the time it occupies to carry out the work properly. I quite understand that an inefficient troop, run by a Scoutmaster who does not, or cannot, devote sufficient time, is worse than useless. However, I am serious about it, and if the scheme matures, then some day you might see a French yacht, manned by French Sea Scouts, sailing into your Keyhaven."

"If they do, sir," said Peter, "they'll be sure to meet with a hearty welcome, although, I'm afraid, I won't be there to join in," he added regretfully.

With the strong current, the Olivette made a quick run down to Caudebec, anchoring under the lee of the Dos d'Ane before sunset. It was now close upon the neap tides, and the bore was not so much in evidence.

"We've been done out of a little excitement," was Hepburn's comment after the Olivette had encountered the comparatively mild tidal wave.

"You speak for yourself, old thing," rejoined Roche. "I've still a lump on my forehead where I bashed my head against the deck-beam as the old boat stood on her head. In my opinion, bores are a nuisance, whether they are of the human variety or otherwise."

Monsieur Raoul de la Voie took his departure at Caudebec. He bade the Sea Scouts farewell and bon voyage, and the lads heartily thanked him for his kindness and hospitality.

"He's a proper sport," commented Roche.

"There was a time when I thought all Frenchmen wore stove-pipe hats, pointed moustachios, and tufts of hair on their chins. Going abroad widens one's outlook," he added sapiently.

Two days were spent at Caudebec. There was much to be done to prepare the Olivette for her homeward voyage. Her fuel-tanks had to be replenished, her oil-supply renewed, provisions and fresh water to be shipped on board, and various formalities to be carried out with the port authorities at Havre.

"We start to-morrow, lads," announced Mr. Armitage. "The fine weather is holding, but there are indications of a break-up in the course of the next forty-eight hours. We can't afford to be held up here."

"At what hour, sir?" asked Peter.

"Seven in the morning at high-water," replied the Scoutmaster. "With luck, we ought to be inside the Wight before sunset."

Promptly to the minute on the following morning the anchor was weighed, and the motor began its rhythmic purr. To save time, the Tancarville Canal route was to be cut out in favour of the passage of the estuary of the Seine, and, in accordance with the port regulations, a pilot had to be employed.

The pilot came on board just before seven o'clock. He was a short, bow-legged, elderly man, differing very little in appearance from the seafaring fraternity on the other side of the Channel, except that his knowledge of English was rather meagre.

Peter Stratton was at the helm, the pilot standing beside him.

All went well for the first ten minutes or so, then a brigantine in tow of a tug appeared in sight round a bend abreast of the village of Villequier.

"Tribord tout!" ordered the pilot.

Peter, considerably astonished to receive the order, for he was aware that "tribord" was the equivalent for "starboard", promptly starboarded his helm.

The little Frenchman danced with excitement.

"Tribord tout!" he reiterated.

The Patrol Leader gave the boat still more starboard helm. At that moment the tug blew a single blast with her steam whistle.

The pilot, abandoning his post, ran on deck gesticulating frantically at the tug. Peter, left to his own devices, and knowing that if he attempted to port helm now there would almost inevitably be a disastrous collision, kept her helm hard over until the Olivette had starboarded sixteen points and her bows were pointing in exactly the opposite direction to her former course.

Then he ordered the motor to stop, and awaited the pilot's return.

"P'raps he's got a pal on the tug and wants a yarn," he soliloquized. "Wonder what he is doing now?"

As a matter of fact the Frenchman, with tears in his eyes, was complaining to Mr. Armitage of the wilful disobedience of the youthful helmsman.

"I tell him keep to dis side," he declared, "and he vit intent deliberate 'e put ze ship across de bow of ze tug so. I protest, Monsieur; I chuck in ze 'and so."

The pilot folded his arms, stood with his feet well apart, and gazed stolidly ahead. It was his pose of lofty detachment.

Mr. Armitage made his way to the wheelhouse, where Peter, unconscious of the enormity of his offence, was carrying on quite unconcernedly. Fortunately the Olivette was still a long way from the dangerous sandbank-encumbered estuary, and the navigation presented no difficulty.

"What's the row you've had with the pilot, Peter?" inquired Mr. Armitage.

"Row, sir? I didn't have a row. He told me to starboard. I expected him to tell me to port helm, but I carried out his orders. Then he began roaring like a lunatic. If I had hesitated and ported helm, there would have been a most awful smash."

"There has been a mistake," admitted the Scoutmaster, "and I'm to blame as much as anyone. I ought to have warned you 'tribord' is the French for 'starboard' and 'bâbord' for port, but that's not enough. When a Frenchman orders 'tribord' he means that the boat's bows are to go to starboard and not the helm. He ought to have made allowances, for it's pretty certain that this is not the first British vessel he's piloted. I'll get Hepburn to take the wheel for a spell, and we'll explain to our worthy pilot."

The Frenchman was easily mollified after explanations had been given. With a bow he declared that "ze affaire" was over and forgotten, but during the rest of the voyage down the estuary he took good care to say, "Port ze helm dis vay," or, "Turn ze ship's 'ead to ze left."

In four hours, keeping at full speed, and with a tide under her, the Olivette was clear of the estuary and pitching to the short, sharp seas off the Grand Rade of Havre. Here the pilot was dropped, a boat from the pilot cutter coming alongside to take him off.

"Do not make ze tarry, monsieur," he said to Mr. Armitage. "Ze weather it looks not nice. By dark, it blow ver' 'ard."

"Let's hope he's wrong for once," thought the Scoutmaster. "All the same, the glass is falling, so the sooner we get into sheltered water the better."

He glanced to wind'ard. The sky was of a deep blue, without a cloud being visible. The breeze blew strongly from the south'ard. It was a favourable wind for Old England's shores.

He waved his hand in acknowledgment of the pilot's warning.

"Let her rip, Flemming," he ordered. "Full speed ahead."

It was a far different passage from the Olivette's previous crossing. Even when clear of the land, the waves were short and steep as the weather-going tide met the breeze obliquely. In spite of the extra ballast, the boat rolled and pitched until her foredeck was swept by the white-crested waves, and water poured at intervals over her quarter. But, protected by the high coaming surrounding the well, the crew kept fairly comfortable. They had to wear oilskins to keep themselves dry, for the spindrift was flying inboard. Every movable article, both on deck and below, had to be lashed down, and it was soon apparent that, until they were in smoother water, the Sea Scouts would have to go without hot meals.

About four o'clock the wind dropped considerably. The Olivette was now out of sight of land, and, with the exception of an old wind-jammer running full-and-by up-Channel, not another vessel was in sight.

"Make some tea while you have a chance, Woodleigh," suggested Mr. Armitage. "This lull is only temporary, I fancy."

To the west'ard inky-coloured clouds were appearing above the horizon. The southerly breeze was on the point of veering to the west'ard or sou'west'ard, and when it came it would, in all probability, come with considerable force.

"We may get in before it comes on hard," soliloquized the Scoutmaster. "It's no joke being caught out; but we'll have to make the best of it."

After a hastily snatched meal, all the crew, except Roche and Hepburn, turned in to get a few minutes' sleep, Mr. Armitage giving strict injunctions to report to him the moment the wind piped up again.

"And none of your Brightlingsea stunts, Alan," he added, referring to an occasion when Hepburn took the Olivette into port on his own initiative. "That time you managed splendidly, but another attempt mightn't end quite so well. If the breeze doesn't pipe up soon, turn me out directly you sight land. You ought to see the high ground behind Ventnor on your port bow."

The "watch below" had quite two hours' rest before Alan noticed a squall bearing down. At the same time he fancied that he saw land ahead in the clearing of the mirk that preceded the rain.

"All hands on deck," he shouted to his companions in the forepeak. "One of you run aft and warn Mr. Armitage."

The Scoutmaster did not wait to be called. Hearing the commotion for'ard, he left his cabin and glanced to wind'ard.

"We're in for it," he mused.

Just then, Flemming, who was due to relieve Roche in the motor-room, came up with the disconcerting news that there was a choke in the carburetter, and could they stop the engine while he and Roche remedied the defect?

"Right-o," agreed Mr. Armitage. "Carry on and get it done as sharp as you can. How long will it take, do you think?"

"'Bout ten minutes, sir," replied the lad.

Five minutes later the squall struck the Olivette heavily. Being without way, and unable to answer to her helm, the staunch little craft lay broadside on in the trough of the rapidly rising sea.

CHAPTER XX

Home Waters Again

The Olivette, although she had a light mast stepped in a tabernacle for'ard, did not carry sail, relying solely upon her excellent engine. That the motor had stopped was in no way due to the design. The best engine on the market will "konk out", if foreign matter finds its way into the fuel-tank and thence through the feed-pipe to the carburetter.

Bracing themselves with their backs up against the tool-locker and their feet hard up against the engine-bearers, Roche and Flemming toiled desperately to effect a clearance in record time. In their haste they neglected ordinary precaution, and in a sudden lurch of the vessel the jet of the carburetter rolled into the bilges.

Mr. Armitage, going below to see how things were progressing, found the two engineers had taken up several of the floor-boards and were groping in a foot of oily bilge-water to recover the small but highly necessary article.

"Sorry, sir, but she lurched," said Eric apologetically. "We'll find the jet in half a tick."

A cascade of water pouring into the open well warned the Scoutmaster that prompt measures must be taken quickly if the Olivette were to escape being swamped as she lay broadside on.

Assisted by Stratton, who volunteered for the hazardous task, Mr. Armitage and the Patrol Leader crawled along the slippery, heaving deck and laid out the sea-anchor.

The Olivette, drifting rapidly to leeward, snubbed at the rope attached to the canvas bag. There was a sharp twang. The rope, apparently sound, had parted like packthread, and the sea-anchor was irrecoverably lost.

"We'll have to rig up another, Peter," shouted Mr. Armitage. "A stout spar, a hammock, and a piece of ballast will do the trick. Be sharp. She won't stand many of these breakers."

A hissing, white-crested wave, pouring completely over the boat, confirmed the Scoutmaster's words. Below, the Sea Scouts were plying the semi-rotary pump, but their strenuous efforts failed to cope with the steady inrush of water. Already there was a foot or more swirling over the engine-room floor, to the detriment of the task of clearing the choked carburetter.

As he went below to look out the materials for the improvised sea-anchor, Mr. Armitage was confronted by old Tom Boldrigg.

"Try ile, sir," suggested the ex-sailor. "Ile's an excellent thing for quietin' the waves. I'll see to that, sir, if you wish——"

"Carry on, please," replied Mr. Armitage. "We're rigging up a temporary sea-anchor."

Without another word Boldrigg went about his task. His canvas kit-bag served the purpose, and he sacrificed it to the common weal, although it had been his companion for years of service afloat.

Filling the water-tight bag with heavy lubricating oil, Tom secured the mouth tightly and bent a stout line to it. Then with the marlinespike of his knife he pricked half a dozen holes in the canvas.

"Belay, there, lads!" he shouted, handing the rope to some of the Sea Scouts and heaving the bag over the side to windward.

Although the bag offered very little resistance, the fact that the Olivette was drifting rapidly to lee'ard enabled the canvas sack to run out to the full extent of the rope. The oil leaking through the small holes soon began to take effect. A triangular patch of comparatively smooth oil-covered water, with its apex at the sack and its base far to lee'ard of the boat, had the almost instantaneous result of keeping down the crested waves. The Olivette, rolling still, was no longer in peril, for not a cupful of spray came inboard.

"How long will that last?" inquired Mr. Armitage.

"Best part of an hour, sir," replied the old man. "'Sides, we can easily pull the sack aboard again and fill up with ile."

But in less than twenty minutes the engine was running again with her flywheel well clear of the bilge-water. The Sea Scouts at the pump had seen to that.

Slowly the Olivette was brought round head to wind. With strenuous efforts the canvas bag was hauled inboard, and the order given for full speed ahead.

Buffeted by the waves, with spray flying in solid showers twenty feet above the wheelhouse, the little ship resumed her dash for home.

Another lift in the rain-laden mirk showed the Isle of Wight now two points on the port bow. Mr. Armitage hailed the sight with whole-hearted satisfaction. He was running for the eastern side of the island in order to get under the lee of the land. Although it was the longer course, it was far preferable to having the dangerous stretch of coast between St. Catherine's and The Needles under his lee.

Nearer and nearer came Old England's shores. Every revolution of the propeller was decreasing the distance between the Olivette and sheltered waters.

At eight o'clock in the evening, Mr. Armitage went into the wheel-house, where Woodleigh and Warkworth were doing a double trick at the helm, for it required more than one strong lad to master the kicking wheel.

"I'll take on for a spell," he said. The lads regarded their Scoutmaster curiously. Knowing the previous arrangement that Mr. Armitage was not to take any active part in the navigation of the ship, his decision rather puzzled them.

"We're quite all right, sir," protested Woodleigh.

"I'm stiff with doing nothing," rejoined Mr. Armitage. "A tussle with the wheel will do me good."

The youthful quartermasters stood aside, and the Scoutmaster "took on". He knew that, before the Olivette gained the sheltered waters of Spithead, she would have to negotiate the shallow shoals of the eastern end of the Wight, where an error of judgment would result in disaster. He knew the approaches to Spithead by heart. There was no occasion for him to refer to a chart.

An hour later the Olivette passed the huge concrete tower on the Nab shoal. With a strong tide under her, she simply romped past the Warner Lightship, and turned in the direction of the yellow-and-black chequered Horse Sand Fort.

"Up steaming-lights!" ordered the Scoutmaster as the sun sank, a pale yellow orb in an indigo-coloured sky. "Cooks to the galley! We're in sheltered water now."

The masthead, port, and starboard lamps were lighted and displayed. Down below, the Scouts not on duty were preparing for a belated meal. Spithead and the Solent were familiar sights to them. In the well-lighted cabin they sat, ate, and yarned, while Mr. Armitage and Roche stuck to their respective tasks.

Presently Peter came on deck.

"I'll take on now, sir," he reported. "You must be hungry.... Why, we're past Cowes—we're nearly home!"

"Yes," replied Mr. Armitage. "There's Hurst Light right ahead. Take her, Peter. I'll follow your excellent advice and get something to eat. There won't be enough water for us over the bar, so we'll have to put into Lymington for the night. Besides, we have to obtain our clearance from the Customs."

Without incident the Olivette made Lymington River and brought up on a vacant pair of moorings. Her crew slept like logs until they were nearly thrown from their bunks by the wash of the steamship plying between Lymington and Yarmouth.

It was blowing very hard from the west'ard—half a gale, in fact. Had the Olivette been caught out in mid-Channel she would have had a perilous time. She had won through by a few hours.

"We've had a jolly time," declared Hepburn, surveying the scene, "but give me this side of the Channel any old day of the week. Hello, it's close on eight! I'll have to hoist the ensign."

Alan was making his way aft, when Peter stopped him.

"Here, you blighter!" exclaimed the Patrol Leader. "What are you up to?"

Hepburn explained.

"Not the ensign-staff this time," protested Peter.

"Why not?" demanded the mystified Alan.

"'Cause, you would-be smuggler," replied Stratton, "we've 'come foreign'. Ensign at the masthead, please. That's the recognized rule."

The Sea Scouts had not finished breakfast when a boat came alongside with the representative of His Majesty's Excise and Customs.

The official smiled when he boarded the Olivette. He knew her and her crew well, but duty is duty all the world over.

"Anything to declare?" he inquired. "Tobacco, tea, spirits, eau de Cologne, lace, and what not?"

"I have spirits," announced the irrepressible Hepburn. "High spirits—so I'm told."

"They are not liable to duty," rejoined the Exciseman. "Well, I may as well have a look round."

He was a man who did his work thoroughly. The Olivette was searched from stem to stern. Every locker was examined, the floor boards lifted, and even the skirting tapped in case there might be contraband hidden between the timbers.

"Like a game of hunt the slipper," remarked Roche.

"Aye," replied the man, "and it's my game to hunt slippery ones. I've caught a few in my time, but they weren't Sea Scouts. I'll give you your clearance papers, Mr. Armitage."

The interrupted breakfast dispatched, and the plates and cups washed up and stowed, the Olivette resumed her homeward run.

"I don't know about Alan's high spirits," remarked Peter. "Mine are rather low. It's my last run in the old Olivette, I'm afraid."

"You never know your luck," said Roche. "And you're going abroad again, you lucky blighter. I hope I'll make as good a Patrol Leader as you, old man."

"Without a doubt of it, you will," declared Peter earnestly. "Starboard.... at that.... Stand by for'ard and pick up the buoy.... I say, there's Bruin."

Sure enough Peter's pet and the Olivette's mascot was sitting on the edge of the quay.

The moment the Olivette picked up her moorings, Bruin took to the water and swam off. Willing hands hauled the dog on board, where he inconsiderately showed his delight by shaking his shaggy coat and liberally besprinkling the crew.

"Just to remind us," observed Peter, wiping the moisture from his face—"just to remind us that we are in home waters again."

PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN
By Blackie & Son, Limited, Glasgow

Transcriber's Notes:

This book contains a number of misprints.
The following misprints have been corrected:

[exclamed Dick Roche] —>
[exclaimed Dick Roche]

[the Sea Scouts' calcucations] —>
[the Sea Scouts' calculations]

[Warborrow Bay] —>
[Worbarrow Bay]

[a serious of semicircles] —>
[a series of semicircles]

[Cest moi] —>
[C'est moi]

[The gaunt exexpanse] —>
[The gaunt expanse]

[the astern end of] —>
[the eastern end of]

Obvious punctuation/spelling errors were corrected without note.

In chapter I there is a [Alan Hepworth] mentioned (only once). This should probably be [Alan Hepburn], but it has not been corrected.

In chapter IV [Warborrow Bay] is mentioned (once) but the probable correct notation, [Worbarrow Bay], isn't mentioned anywhere in this book. The first notation doesn't seem to exist, the latter does. This, and the fact that Mr. Westerman mentions [Lulworth Cove] in connection with it, which lies very close to [Worbarrow Bay], makes it all the more likely that [Worbarrow Bay] is the correct notation.

Two illustrations were missing in the paper version used for producing this digitised text. These were: 'THE HIGH-PRESSURE JET CAUGHT THE TENDERFOOT FULL IN THE FACE' and 'THE DERELICT'. They are marked with "(missing from book)" in the Illustrations-list and on the spot where the image should have been.

A few cases of punctuation errors were corrected, but are not mentioned here.

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Table of Contents

- SEA SCOUTS ABROAD

- SEA SCOUTS ABROAD

- Further Adventures of the "Olivette"
- PERCY F. WESTERMAN
- Contents

- SEA SCOUTS ABROAD

- CHAPTER I

- Afloat Once More

- CHAPTER II

- Stolen

- CHAPTER III

- A Real Good Turn

- CHAPTER IV

- Repayment

- CHAPTER V

- Trapped by the Tide

- CHAPTER VI

- Why the Water Failed

- CHAPTER VII

- The New Hand

- CHAPTER VIII

- The Stowaway

- CHAPTER IX

- Broken Down in Mid-Channel

- CHAPTER X

- Alan Speaks French

- CHAPTER XI

- "Wounded"

- CHAPTER XII

- "In the Ditch"

- CHAPTER XIII

- The Bore

- CHAPTER XIV

- The Derelict

- CHAPTER XV

- All Hands to the Pumps

- CHAPTER XVI

- The Adventures of the "Liberty Men"

- CHAPTER XVII

- Monsieur Raoul

- CHAPTER XVIII

- Shore Quarters

- CHAPTER XIX

- Homeward Bound

- CHAPTER XX

- Home Waters Again

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE