Chapter XVIII: The Admiral

“What’s that fellow staring at us for?” asked Talbot.

“Oh, I don’t know,” replied Symington carelessly, as he stooped to put a final polish on his shore-going boots. “It’s the thing to do afloat. Everyone does, and it’s taken as a sort of compliment to the craft you happen to be aboard.”

“But, just you look at him,” persisted Talbot.

It was the morning following the arrival of the _Kestrel_ and the _Merlin_ in Lymington River. Both craft were brought up on Long Reach and just above the second beacon. As the east-going tide would not run before the afternoon, and as it was almost a hopeless proposition to attempt to stem the adverse tide, the crews of both boats had arranged to go ashore in the forenoon, and were consequently “smartening themselves up” for the occasion.

Symington gave a casual glance. Then he looked a second time. Evidently Talbot’s wonder was justifiable, for breasting the ebb-tide was an open, centre-board sailing boat in the stern-sheets of which sat the only occupant.

He was a bronzed-complexioned man of about forty, with iron-grey hair and a white “torpedo” beard. His beetling brows were conspicuous by their long, white hairs, overhanging dark and deep-set eyes. He wore a blue reefer suit and a peaked cap cocked at a rakish angle over one eye. As Talbot had remarked, he was staring—although it looked more like a glare—straight at the _Kestrel_.

The _Kestrel_ had anchored about fifty yards lower down the stream than the _Merlin_, and was in consequence nearer to the approaching boat.

Even as Symington looked the bearded man put his helm down with the evident intention of coming alongside.

“Someone to see you, sir!” he announced, addressing Mr. Grant, who had just finished shaving.

The rest of the crew of the _Kestrel_ came on deck. Talbot and Carline stood by with fenders; Symington prepared to take the stranger’s painter; while the others lined up behind Mr. Grant, standing smartly at “alert.”

But instead of running alongside the man let his sheets fly, with the result that the boat lost way and, only just stemming the tide, remained practically level with the _Kestrel_.

Then he stood up, almost bursting blood-vessels in his unaccountable anger.

“Confound you, sir!” he roared. “Don’t you know who I am?”

“’Fraid I don’t,” replied Mr. Grant mildly. “Unless,” he added cheerfully, “unless you are the harbour master.”

“Insolence, sir! Rank insolence!” blared the man. “Why don’t you salute? Why haven’t you dipped your ensign? I’m the Admiral commanding the Atlantic Fleet!”

For a moment the Scoutmaster was nonplussed. Obviously the enraged individual was a lunatic and possibly a dangerous one. The situation had to be handled delicately. The best thing to do, he decided, was to humour the man. Fortunately the crew had taken their cue from their Scoutmaster and had refrained from roaring with laughter.

“I am sorry, sir,” said Mr. Grant. “I failed to recognise you.”

“That’s no excuse,” stormed the man. “You’ve failed to pay proper respect to your commanding officer, sir! Consider yourself under arrest!”

“Very good, sir,” replied the Scoutmaster.

The while he was working out a very difficult problem. If the intruder were as fierce as he looked—and in spite of his age he was active and muscular—he was a positive danger. Perhaps before the united efforts of the Sea Scouts could place him under restraint he might inflict severe injuries on some of them. Handicapped by his injured hand, Mr. Grant realised that he could do little from a physical point of view.

On the other hand, he could not continue to temporise indefinitely. If Mr. Pendennis could be communicated with, without exciting the man’s suspicions, something might be done, for the Cornish Scoutmaster was a huge, hefty fellow with no small reputation as a wrestler in a county where wrestling as a sport holds a high position.

Just then the madman noticed that his boat was adrift. He had neglected to make fast the painter, and owing to his strange behaviour the Sea Scouts had not given the boat a thought. Already the little sailing craft, with her sails still out, was drifting to lee’ard.

“Quartermaster of the Watch!” shouted the intruder. “Who gave you orders to take my barge from the——”

He paused abruptly. In his disordered brain was a faint realisation that there was no accommodation ladder to this craft. Its absence puzzled him.

Suddenly he grasped Carline by the shoulder and hurled him overboard. It was done so swiftly and unexpectedly that no one had time to raise even a finger to attempt to prevent it; but the next instant Brandon and Craddock threw themselves upon the madman.

There was little room on the waterway for a struggle—merely a space of about thirty inches between the raised cabin-top and the side of the yacht; but in spite of limited surroundings the affray was a strenuous one.

To the credit of the two Sea Scouts it must be recorded that neither lost his temper, in spite of the fact that they had seen Carline tossed into the ditch.

The madman fought desperately, using his fists successfully. It was evident that he had been a trained boxer; yet there was wanting the necessary co-operation between the brain and his fists.

Contenting himself with parrying the man’s deliberate blows, the Patrol Leader kept his opponent busy while Craddock contrived to get behind the infuriated intruder. Then, gripping the man round his waist, Peter threw him on his back upon the cabin-top.

The struggle was not yet over. Again and again the maniac sought to regain his feet. Wrenching one arm free, he struck out. Brandon gripped him by the wrist and held on. Still the man resisted; yet notwithstanding his fury he made no effort to use his feet against his youthful antagonists.

He was visibly tiring. So were Brandon and Craddock, but not to such an extent. It was then that Heavitree joined in the fray. Deftly passing a rope round the madman’s ankle and taking a turn with the end to one of the runners, he soon had the man reduced to a state of helplessness; while Brandon completed the business by securing the fellow’s arms behind his back with his scarf.

Meanwhile one of the crew of the _Merlin_ who happened to be on deck had raised the alarm, and the yacht’s dinghy, manned by four Sea Scouts, with Mr. Pendennis in the stern-sheets, came at top speed towards the _Kestrel_.

At the same time Carline was returning with the maniac’s boat. Finding himself overboard, the Sea Scout thought that since he was in the water he might just as well secure the drifting boat. This he did. Then, lowering the centre-board and trimming the sheets, he sailed the little craft alongside the _Kestrel_ just as the _Merlin’s_ dinghy arrived upon the scene.

“Hello! What’s the trouble?” enquired Scoutmaster Pendennis.

Mr. Grant tapped his forehead significantly.

“Is that so?” continued the Cornishman. “Poor fellow! I wonder where he came from. As a matter of fact, I thought you’d had a visit from the escaped convict. Haven’t you heard? It’s in this morning’s paper. A prisoner got away from Parkhurst yesterday afternoon. It is supposed that he stole a boat and crossed to the mainland. There’s a boat missing at Yarmouth. Any damage done?”

Brandon and Craddock, breathing heavily, shook their heads. Heavitree had barked his knuckles in the struggle, but decided that “it was nothing to write home about.” The madman, exhausted by his efforts, was lying comparatively still, but apparently uninjured.

The rapid beats of a steamer’s paddles caused a general rush to fend off the boats lying alongside the _Kestrel_. One of the passenger boats plying between Yarmouth and Lymington was coming up the river and throwing out a tremendous wash. Further down stream anchored yachts were rolling heavily in the breaking swell, while tons of water were receding from the mud-flats in advance of the quickly moving vessel.

As she passed, one of the passengers standing aft noticed the bound figure on the _Kestrel’s_ deck and called his companions’ attention to it. Then, raising his hands trumpet-wise to his mouth, he shouted:

“We’ll come for him as soon as we can.”

The steamer continued on her way to the pier, leaving the _Kestrel_ rolling so heavily in her swell that Heavitree had to steady the helpless captive lest he should be jerked overboard.

Half an hour later a large rowing boat with a boatman and the two passengers from the steamer came alongside.

“So you’ve got him, sir,” said one of the latter. “I hope he didn’t give you much trouble.”

“Not much,” replied Mr. Grant. “Who is he?”

The attendant, for such he was, explained. The madman was an inmate of a private mental hospital a few miles from Yarmouth. Usually he was quite docile, but there were occasions when he became violent. More than once by a display of considerable cunning he had broken out of the establishment, and invariably he had made his way to the little seaport and had taken possession of an unattended boat.

“We guessed he’d be making for Lymington,” continued the man. “When I heard Mr. Lucas’s boat was missing, I said to my mate, ‘The Admiral’s up to his old trick again.’ We call him The Admiral, because he’s always under the delusion that he is one. Of course, the police must come to the conclusion that the boat was taken by the fellow who got away from Parkhurst yesterday, though I told them they were wrong. A desperate chap, six foot one such as he is, wouldn’t risk showing himself in Yarmouth, if he wanted to steal a boat. Glad we didn’t come across him when we were looking for The Admiral last night. He’s serving a long term for house-breaking with violence, and I don’t envy the policeman who has to tackle him. Well, sir, we’ll take charge of The Admiral, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind in the least,” replied Mr. Grant. “I suppose he won’t give trouble?”

“Bless you, no, sir!” declared the attendant. “He’ll be as quiet as a lamb. Come on, Admiral!” he continued, addressing the subject of his search. “There’s a rehearsal this afternoon, and what will happen if the first violin isn’t there?”

So saying, he removed the madman’s bonds and helped him to his feet. The unfortunate man stepped into the waiting boat as quietly as any ordinary individual.

“How about this?” enquired the Scoutmaster, pointing to the sailing boat.

“I’ll be along to take charge of her, sir,” said the boatman. “You won’t be getting under way afore the flood tide, I’ll allow?”

With the departure of the attendants and their charge, Mr. Pendennis prepared to return to his own craft.

“We won’t be starting before two o’clock, I suppose,” he remarked. “We’ll carry our tide right through to Chichester. Ought to get there by eight with the breeze. By the way, how’s that hand of yours, Grant? Oughtn’t you to see a doctor and get it lanced?”

“No need,” replied Mr. Grant. “The poison’s out and the wound is healing nicely. It will be all right in a day or so. Now, lads! Who’s for the shore?”