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.