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!"