at the first streak of dawn the olivette slipped her moorings and made for the open sea. it was an ideal daybreak. not a ripple disturbed the slate-grey surface of the water, save the even wake caused by the steadily moving boat. the sky was grey; the dawn was grey. even the verdant hills of the isle of wight looked grey where they were faintly visible through the light mist.
"it's going to be a scorching hot day," declared woodleigh.
"fine weather," added flemming. "the glass is high and steady."
"i hope it will be rough," said hayes.
"you'll be sorry for yourself if it is," said woodleigh. "take my tip and be thankful it is fine. rough weather is all very fine if you've a sound boat and a sheltered harbour close under your lee. the fellow who puts to sea because it looks like being rough is simply asking for trouble. if you're obliged to that's a different matter."
"but isn't the olivette a sound boat? and has she ever been out in a storm?" asked hayes.
"of course she's a sound boat," declared the patrol leader stoutly. "yes, we've been out in a storm. the starboard window of the wheelhouse—thick plate-glass—was stove in by a wave. we got into port with about a foot of water over the engine-room floor. yes, i've had some and i'm not asking for any more, thank you."
by this time the olivette had ported helm and was passing through hurst race. although there was no wind the rush of the west-going tide was very much in evidence. irregular, crested waves were rearing their heads menacingly within a well-defined area. everywhere else the sea was as smooth as a mill-pond. "north channel, woodleigh?" asked rayburn, who was at the wheel.
"no, needles channel," was the reply. "it will give the others a chance of seeing the western end of the wight. close that window, old son, or we'll be getting wet shirts."
"what causes the race?" asked jock findlay.
"strong tide over uneven ground," explained woodleigh. "just here is a deep hole, nearly two hundred feet. it's the greatest depth between the isle of wight and the mainland, although this is the shortest distance between. the tide has to tumble through the neck of a bottle, as it were, and in the process it gets a bit angry."
totland bay was soon abeam, then the southend sea scouts feasted their eyes upon the multi-coloured cliffs of alum bay, until their attention was attracted by the needles and the outlying lighthouse, backed by the towering cliffs of glistening chalk that form the western extremity of the isle of wight.
clear of the bridge a course was shaped to pass four miles south of portland bill. this meant being a considerable distance from the picturesque dorset coast between old harry and the bill; but, as mr. armitage remarked, time was an object, and, if the olivette were to make plymouth the same day, she could not afford to skirt the coastline simply with the idea of giving the guests an opportunity to enjoy the scenery.
still carrying her tide the olivette made good progress. early in the forenoon a light easterly breeze sprang up, but since the speed of the boat was about equal to that of the wind there was no tempering coolness to be derived from it. the only apparent result was to throw up a long, low swell that made the olivette roll considerably.
"there's portland race, lads," announced mr. armitage, pointing to a dark-coloured patch of water on the starboard beam and to the south'ard of the wedge-shaped bill. "it's one of the worst parts off the south coast."
"have you ever been through it, sir?" asked hayes.
"no; and i don't want to, thank you," was the reply. "i've been inside it, which is quite a different matter. when you fellows bring the spindrift up-channel i'd advise you to keep outside it. inside is all right if you work your tides, but in this district of topsy-turvydom in the matter of tides there's an important thing to remember about portland bill. for nine hours out of twelve the current sets south'ard on both sides of the bill, so that, if you were in a sailing craft and were unable to stem the tide, you would be swept into the race itself."
"and what would happen, sir, if a boat did get carried into it?" persisted hayes.
"swamped," replied the scoutmaster laconically.
"so don't try it, hayes," added mr. graham.
"i believe i can hear the race," declared findlay.
"yes," agreed woodleigh, "you can. we've heard it miles away on a calm night. it's not a pleasant sound."
half an hour later the olivette entered west bay. this expanse of water was living up to its reputation as a bay of calms—except when it is rough. like the little girl with the curl in the middle of her forehead:
"when it is good
it is very, very good;
but when it is bad
it is horrid."
the breeze had died away, and the water was an almost boundless expanse of gentle rollers. the bill was almost lost in the haze, the high ground behind lyme regis and bridport was entirely hidden in the warm, misty atmosphere. a large yawl bound west was lying becalmed, her white sails shaking from the yards as she wallowed in the swell. her crew were lying unconcernedly on the deck and hardly noticed the olivette; but her owner, seated in a deck-chair aft, raised his glasses and kept the sea scouts under observation.
"bet he's a bit sick that he hasn't a motor," remarked hayes.
"don't crow," exclaimed desmond. "this isn't our boat. we may be in the same plight when we bring the spindrift across west bay."
half an hour later the yawl was hull down, her idle canvas showing faintly against the blue sky.
"i say," suddenly exclaimed jock findlay. "that's a long way from shore for a small boat, isn't it?"
he pointed to a rowing boat about half a mile on the olivette's port bow.
"it's a dinghy with a man in her," reported woodleigh. "he's not rowing. he may be fishing, but i hardly think so. shall we run alongside, sir?"
"yes, do," replied mr. armitage. "if he's all right there's no harm done. if he's in difficulties we may be able to do him a good turn."
"starboard ten," ordered the milford patrol leader, addressing flemming, who was at the wheel.
the olivette was now heading straight for the drifting boat. the solitary occupier seemed utterly unaware of the motor-boat's approach, but sat on the stroke thwart, nursing his head.
"perhaps he's deaf, sir," hazarded findlay.
"no, sea-sick," rejoined mr. graham, handing jock his binoculars. "his face is green—absolutely. a tripper adrift most likely."
"ahoy!" shouted woodleigh, holding up a coil of rope. "do you want a tow?"
the fellow raised his head and gazed pathetically at the olivette. he gave no sign that he was at all anxious to be aided.
"why, he's only a boy," declared findlay.
"a pretty hefty one," supplemented desmond.
"what shall we do, sir?" asked woodleigh.
"get him on board and take the boat in tow," replied mr. armitage. "stand by one of you to grab her painter."
the olivette's clutch was put into control, and, under flemming's practised helmsmanship, the motor-boat ranged up alongside the unmanageable dinghy. desmond, leaning over the side, grasped the painter and took a turn round the starboard bollard for'ard, while rayburn hooked the stern as the dinghy swung in towards the high side of the olivette.
"come on board," exclaimed mr. armitage authoritatively. "you'll soon be all right."
the boy attempted to obey, but lurched awkwardly as if he had no control of the limbs. two of the sea scouts leapt into the dinghy, and literally hauled its occupant on board the boat.
"take him down below out of the sun," said mr. armitage. "he may have a touch of sunstroke. if it's only sea-sickness, give him a piece of lemon to chew. all right, desmond, pass the painter aft."
the olivette regathered way, the dinghy riding comfortably astern, with her bows high out of the water. on her backboard were the words: "gregory—abbotsbury".
"he's a bit out of his reckoning," observed mr. armitage. "abbotsbury is a good fifteen miles to the nor'ard. he'd never be able to row back that distance."
"what do you propose to do with him?" inquired mr. graham.
"put into brixham and land him, i expect," replied mr. armitage. "we can't put back to abbotsbury very well. for one thing, it's well out of our course and there's no harbour. we might find if we went there that there'd be too much swell to effect a landing, and we would then have to carry on into lyme regis or bridport—both inaccessible at low water. i'll find out more about the youth, and see what he wants to do. come along, graham. we may hear an interesting story."
the two scoutmasters found the rescued youth sitting up on one of the fo'c'sle cots. apparently the slice of lemon had had the desired effect, for his face had lost the greenish hue and looked well sunburned. he was talking to desmond and rayburn, asking them numerous questions concerning the olivette and her crew.
"well, my lad," began mr. armitage briskly, "let's have your story. how came you so far out to sea?"
"got lost in a fog, sir."
mr. armitage made no comment. it had been a hit hazy on the solent that morning, so it was quite possible that west bay was enveloped in mist.
"what's your name?"
"gregory, sir."
"is that your boat, then?"
there was a brief pause.
"my father's, sir."
"he'll be a bit anxious about you."
"yes, sir."
"in that case we'll land you at brixham."
"plymouth'll do me, sir. i've got an uncle living there. he's a smacksman, so he could tow the boat back to abbotsbury."
mr. armitage left it at that, but he decided to signal prawle point and report the finding of the boat.
"what sort of a fellow is he?" he inquired of desmond, after the latter had come on deck.
"i hardly know what to make of him, sir," replied the patrol leader. "he doesn't seem to know much about the sea, which is a bit strange since his father is a fisherman. he seems rather anxious to know if we are putting in anywhere before we get to plymouth."
"the only seafaring things about him are his clothes," remarked mr. graham. "he doesn't talk with a south coast accent. i suppose——"
"suppose what, graham?" asked mr. armitage.
"perhaps i had better not say," rejoined mr. graham. "i hate having to be suspicious about anybody, but there are certain points about the lad that look a bit fishy."
"'fishy' is a natural characteristic of a fisherman's son, i take it," rejoined mr. armitage, with a laugh.
"not in that sense. suppose we have the fellow on deck. he seems fit enough now. give him a few simple jobs and see how he shapes."
in response to a message—delivered by rayburn—gregory came on deck.
"you'll have to earn your passage, my lad," said mr. armitage. "my boys are about to scrub down decks. you might give them a hand. how about coiling that rope away?"
the scoutmaster pointed to a hawser-laid rope lying just abaft the mast.
gregory went for'ard, lurching with the movement of the boat. then he began coiling away, struggling with the stubborn rope until he literally tied it up in knots.
"tough bit o' stuff, this," he remarked, regarding his efforts with evident mistrust.
"it is," agreed mr. armitage. "all right. you can steer, i suppose? take on from flemming. he'll give you the course."
gregory made for the wheelhouse. the two scoutmasters exchanged knowing glances. test number one had failed, as far as the fisherman's son was concerned. every seafarer knows that a hawser-laid rope is coiled "with the sun". gregory had reversed the process with the result that every coil had kinked badly.
soon it became evident that the lad's helmsmanship was no better than his skill at curling down a rope. judging by the zig-zag wake the wheel was giving him plenty of trouble, although after a bit, thanks to flemming's assistance, gregory made a better show than he had previously done.
nevertheless, both mr. graham and mr. armitage were now agreed that the sea-sick youth, picked up from the dinghy, was certainly not connected with the sea. who and what was he, then?
