Chapter IX: What Marner Revealed

“Light on our port bow, sir!” reported Craddock.

“How far off?” asked Mr. Grant, through the open skylight.

“Miles, sir,” replied Peter. “Another lighthouse, I fancy.”

“Good! I’ll be on deck in a minute,” rejoined the Scoutmaster.

Having reassured himself that Marner was comfortable and almost on the point of falling asleep, Mr. Grant left the cabin and entered the saloon. Here he paused and held his hand close to the swinging lamp.

“H’m!” he remarked in an undertone, as he examined the somewhat jagged cut. “It’s a case of the cobbler being the worst shod, I suppose. I’m always impressing upon the boys the absolute necessity of guarding against blood-poisoning, and in my case it’s precept without practice. Better late than never: I’ll smother the gash with iodine.”

He opened the medicine-chest, found and uncorked the iodine bottle.

“Finger’s throbbing already, I fancy,” he continued.

“How’s your hand, sir?” asked Brandon. “Let me bind it up for you.”

“Thought you were sound asleep, Frank,” remarked the Scoutmaster. “Thanks awfully, if you will.”

The Patrol Leader slipped out of his bunk and, taking the bottle, poured a few drops into the jagged wound. The sting of the iodine made Mr. Grant wince.

“That ought to do the trick, sir,” continued Brandon. “I’ll put a bandage round your hand. I wouldn’t use it if I were you; but there, you know all about that sort of thing, sir.”

“I’m supposed to,” admitted the Scoutmaster. “Unfortunately, when it comes to a personal matter one is apt to let such things slide. That’s quite comfortable. Now I’ll see what the watch on deck are doing.”

“Do you want me, sir?” asked Brandon. “I’ll turn out, if you like. I’d be only too pleased to.”

“No need,” replied Mr. Grant. “Sleep while you can. I may want you when we enter harbour, but that may be hours yet.”

Going on deck, Mr. Grant found that the light Peter had reported was two points on the port bow. By the nature of the flashes—one every second—he recognised it as The Start.

“We’re timing things very nicely,” he observed. “By the time that light’s abeam, it will be dawn. Then we’ll have to close haul in the first tack and get under the lee of the line. We’ll make for Dartmouth and land our passenger. He’s just told me his name is Marner, son of old Dick Marner.”

“The pal of Blueskin Bone, sir?”

“Hope not,” replied Mr. Grant, laughing. “The old man denied the acquaintanceship. However, that’s done with; Blueskin fades out of the picture like a bad dream.”

Almost before the fact could be realised dawn broke. A rosy flush spread over the north-eastern sky, revealing a turmoil of angry, grey-crested waves, for the _Kestrel_ was only a mile or so to the south’ard of The Start, and was feeling the effect of the weather-going tide surging over the ledge of submerged rocks, extending from that bold and dangerous headland.

The yacht was rolling heavily as she ran, but her seaworthiness was now fully established. She was making better weather of it than a vessel of three or four times her tonnage.

“Nor’east a quarter north, now,” ordered the Scoutmaster. “A pull on the mainsheet, Heavitree. I’ll see to the head-sheets.”

Craddock put the helm down. Round came the _Kestrel_ until the youthful helmsman “met her” on the required course. She was now almost, but not quite, close-hauled. The rolling motion gave place to a fairly steady heel. Showers of spray flew inboard over her weather bow, while her lee-bow wave creamed and frothed in a way that gave a fairly true indication of the speed she was making. After running for hours the sense of being close-hauled was unmistakably thrilling.

“Isn’t she hopping it, eh?” exclaimed Heavitree, as he coiled down the flake of the mainsheet. “Hello, sir! Look what you’ve done.”

The Scoutmaster followed the direction of the Sea Scout’s glance. The bandage on his hand was dyed red.

“Must have opened the cut when I handled the jib-sheet,” he thought. “Well, it’s a good thing it was covered up; no dirt can get to it.”

“It’s nothing much,” he remarked casually. “Now, you fellows, let’s see who has the keenest eyesight. There should be a conical buoy on our port bow about a couple of miles off.”

“I see it, sir!” exclaimed Heavitree almost at once. “It’s dead on with our bowsprit-end.”

“Is it, by Jove!” ejaculated Mr. Grant. “Up helm, Peter! At that! We’re closer in than I thought. We might have piled the _Kestrel_ on The Skerries. See those houses just under The Start? That’s Beesands, or what’s left of it. Most of the village was washed away in a gale. The fishermen there train dogs to swim out to the returning boats and swim back with a line. It takes some doing in a rough sea. We’re in smoother water now. Do you see that high point of land ahead, Peter? Steer for that; never mind the compass.”

Pointing out various places of interest ashore, Mr. Grant chatted briskly in order to arouse the obviously flagging spirits of the two lads. They had stuck it well during the night watches, and now they kicked against the suggestion that they should go below to be relieved by Brandon and Talbot.

“Why not bother about the compass, sir?” asked Peter.

“Because for the present it isn’t absolutely necessary,” explained Mr. Grant. “When you’ve a fixed object to steer by, it saves the strain of peering into the binnacle-hood. You fellows have had quite enough of that to-night, or rather last night. Now, Heavitree, nip below and get the stove going. Nothing like a cup of hot cocoa in the early morning after a long trick. When it’s ready, tell Brandon to turn out. We’ll want an extra hand if we have to beat in. This wind will head us, I fancy, when we’re abreast the Homestone.”

The _Kestrel_ was now so steady that Heavitree had no difficulty in lighting the stove. In about ten minutes his tousled head appeared, framed in the companion.

“Cocoa’s ready, sir,” he announced, “and all the others are awake and want cocoa too.”

“You want me, sir?” asked Brandon, as he edged past Heavitree in the companion.

“Yes, please,” replied Mr. Grant. “Have your cocoa and a biscuit first, then tell the others to get their breakfasts when they’re dressed. We don’t want too many on deck, if we’ve to tack in. And, while you are about it, you might hand me the chart of Dartmouth Harbour.”

Six o’clock was striking as the _Kestrel_, at one moment heeling to the fierce blasts that swept down from the lofty ground and at another gliding with canvas hanging idly in a flat calm, made her way between the twin castles of St. Petrox and Kingswear, and gained the land-locked harbour of Dartmouth. Fortunately the first of the flood tide was setting in, and without much difficulty the yacht gained its anchorage.

“There’s a vacant buoy,” observed Mr. Grant, pointing to one a short distance astern of a small tramp steamer. “We’ll pick it up. It will be much safer than riding to a kedge. We’ll have to get another anchor some time to-day, and the sooner the better. Now, Brandon, let’s see how you come up to moorings.”

Considering the Patrol Leader was as yet almost a stranger to the _Kestrel’s_ capabilities he managed remarkably well. Judging the distance to a nicety, he put the helm down and shot the yacht up into the wind. Heavitree running for’ard picked up the buoy with a boat-hook, and hauling in the buoy rope passed the mooring chain round the bitts before the yacht had time to “fall off.”

“Well done!” exclaimed Mr. Grant approvingly. “Down canvas! Then breakfast and a jolly good sound sleep!”

“Could do with both, sir,” agreed Craddock feelingly.

But the Scoutmaster had much to do before he could enjoy an already well-earned rest. As soon as the post-office opened he went ashore in the dinghy and telegraphed to old Marner the news of his son’s safety. Also he had to report the matter to the Registrar of Shipping. He then took the opportunity of communicating with Scoutmaster Pendennis at Falmouth, acquainting him of the fact that the _Kestrel_ had arrived at Dartmouth under somewhat unusual conditions and expressing a hope that even yet the _Merlin_ and the _Kestrel_ would be able to cruise in company.

His next business was to make arrangements with the local representative of the Shipwrecked Mariners Aid Society, to have Dick Marner taken ashore and sent home by train.

Finally, he bought another anchor to replace the one lying on the bed of Falmouth Harbour.

He returned on board to find all the crew asleep with the exception of Carline, who had been told off to keep anchor watch.

“You’d better turn in, too, Carline,” said Mr. Grant. “We aren’t getting under way to-day, and perhaps not to-morrow either. We want fair weather for the run past Portland Bill, and, judging by this morning’s sunrise, we aren’t going to get it just at present.”

Going to his own cabin, Mr. Grant saw that Marner was awake.

“Feelin’ fine, sir,” replied the man in answer to the Scoutmaster’s enquiry. “But I’m fair hungry. That beef tea was all very well, but it don’t fill a man’s innards, in a manner o’ speakin’, sir. Can’t I have somethin’ as ’as got summat to bite at?”

“I think so, now,” said Mr. Grant, smiling at the Cornishman’s quaintly phrased request. “And a boat’s coming for you some time before noon. You’ll be given your fare to Falmouth, and with luck you’ll be home to-night. But you’ll have to be careful with that head of yours, and not shake yourself up too much on your motor bike.”

A look of bewilderment spread over the bronzed features of Dick Marner, junior.

“Moty bike, sir?” he rejoined. “Can’t say as I follers what you’m meaning.”

It was Mr. Grant’s turn to look surprised. Could it be that Marner was suffering from partial loss of memory owing to the injury to his head?

“Surely you remember your motor bicycle at your father’s place at Polkebo?”

“Never ’ad a moty bicycle in my life, sir,” was the astounding reply. “Couldn’t ride un if I ’ad.”

The Scoutmaster made no comment, but thought the more. Apparently the situation required careful handling, but before he could frame a suitable question, Dick Marner continued:

“Now I comes to think on it, the moty cycle you seed was Blueskin Bone’s. ’E an’ fayther are neighbours like; an’ Blueskin ain’t got no shed in ’is garden, and ’aving trouble to get moty cycle up the girt steps to ’is door, ’e keeps un in fayther’s shed.”

“So that’s it,” thought Mr. Grant. “I wish I’d known that when I interviewed Mr. Marner, senior, the sly old rascal! However, Blueskin’s a back number as far as we are concerned. That’s something to be thankful for.”