CHAPTER III

A Real Good Turn

"It's been a perfectly topping day," declared Patrol Leader "Rusty" Rivett, of the 5th Weymouth Troop. "The way you followed that trail, Phillips, was awfully good!"

The Troop members of the junior school of Weymouth College had had a long day's scouting. The Midsummer Term exams were over, and, as two clear days remained before that long-anticipated event "breaking up", the Scouts had taken advantage of the time to put in a final tracking practice.

It was now about five in the afternoon. "Dentibus" Dence, "Boney" Barnicott, "Mutt" Thurgood, John Phillips, "Cock Sparrow" Rogers, and Ben Legge had rallied round their Patrol Leader, and were lying on the grass at the edge of the cliffs between Redcliff Point and Osmington Mills.

Upon second thoughts, it was hardly correct to say they were lying on the grass. The Scouts knew better than to rest their heated bodies on the turf. Each lad had under him his now empty haversack, the generous contents of which had found other homes since the Troop had set out from Weymouth that morning.

It was a glorious view that met their gaze. The blue waters of the bay were ruffled by the faintest suspicion of an on-shore breeze. The sky was cloudless, meeting the expanse of open sea in a blurred undefined line, cut by the misty shape of the Shambles Lightship. On their right they could see the crescent-shaped terrace comprising the town of Melcombe Regis, and the entrance piers of Weymouth Harbour. Beyond lay the spacious sheet of water, enclosed by Portland Breakwater, and dotted with war-ships of all sizes, from gigantic battleships to long, low-lying destroyers. Still farther beyond, the gaunt outlines of Portland cut the skyline until they sloped gradually to the famous Bill, off which the dreaded "race" was swirling and roaring as if fretting for its prey.

"I say," remarked Dentibus, pointing seaward, "what's that boat doing? Looks as if there's something wrong."

The others followed the direction of the extended forefinger. At about a quarter of a mile from shore was a large, grey-painted motor-boat being towed by two men in a dinghy. The men were straining at the oars, but progress was slow. They were evidently not making for Weymouth, but towards the beach immediately underneath that part of the cliffs upon which the Scouts were lying.

"Motor broken down," observed Rusty Riven, laconically. "Wouldn't like their job, swotting in the sun."

"Why do they want to land here?" asked Phillips. "There's no shelter if it should come on to blow."

"Ask me another," rejoined the Patrol Leader. "Perhaps they're fed up and are going to walk into Weymouth and get another motor-boat to tow them in."

"Can you make out her name?" asked Ben Legge.

"Hanged if I can," replied the Patrol Leader. "There is a name on the bows, but she's too far off to see what it is. My word, she's bigger than I thought!"

For some moments the Scouts watched in silence the tedious progress of the broken-down motor-boat. They could see the two rowers glancing frequently over their shoulders, as if gauging the distance that remained between them and the beach.

Presently the rowers found themselves on the fringe of the light ground-swell that was breaking upon the shore. Here they lay on their oars until the towed craft ranged up alongside the dinghy. Then, jumping on board the motor-boat, the pair proceeded to anchor.

"Here, you fellows!" exclaimed Phillips. "She's the _Olivette_. I can see the name distinctly now. Doesn't she belong to the Milford Sea Scouts? We read her log last year."

"Perhaps she isn't that _Olivette_," objected Thurgood.

"She looks like the drawing in the log," persisted Phillips.

"If she is," said the Patrol Leader, "there don't appear to be any Sea Scouts on board. You've struck a false trail, Phillips."

John wasn't at all sure that he had. Being of an observant nature, and fairly smart at making feasible deductions, he wasn't going to abandon his theory until he was firmly convinced that his reasoning was at fault.

He said nothing, but thought the more. Meanwhile, one of the men had jumped into the dinghy and was holding her alongside. The other fellow went below, presently to reappear with a canvas sack. This he lowered into the stern-sheets of the dinghy, and casting off the painter, rejoined his companion.

After about twenty strokes the rower rested on his oars and said something to his chum, who was sitting on the dinghy's transom with his feet resting on the canvas sack. Apparently they did not like the aspect of the surf, for the fellow aft pushed the sack under the stroke thwart, and lowered himself on the stern bench.

With that the rower gave another glance shoreward over his shoulder, spat on his hands, and began pulling his hardest.

The dinghy rode the breaking swell in capital style until her forefoot touched the beach. Smartly the two men sprang out, knee deep in water, but they were not quick enough. Before they could haul the dinghy clear of the waves a sea poured over her quarter.

"Scouts to the rescue!" shouted Rivett.

There was no hanging back. Simultaneously the lads swung themselves over the shelving cliff, dropping or sliding from ledge to ledge; then, gaining the beach, they ran at top speed to the assistance of the two strangers.

The Scouts were hardly prepared for what happened next. The two men, after gazing dumbfoundedly for a few seconds at the apparition of seven active youngsters racing towards them, suddenly took to their heels and fled.

Checking his first impulse to follow in pursuit of the two men, Rusty Rivett halted his charges. Though the running figures appealed to the Scout's instincts much in the same way as a startled hare does to a dog, there was, after all, no justification for the chase, since no reason was apparent why the men should take to their heels.

"Get the boat above high-water mark," ordered the Patrol Leader. "All hands. Never mind getting your shoes wet."

It was a strenuous task, for by this time the dinghy had filled with water to the level of the transom. Watching their opportunity as the waves receded, the lads tilted the boat until she was nearly empty, and then, using the bottom boards to prevent the keel sinking in the soft beach, they eventually hauled their prize clear of the surf.

"What's in the sack, Rusty?" asked Thurgood.

The Patrol Leader hesitated before satisfying his curiosity. It seemed too much like meddling with someone's private property.

"Pots and pans, I think," said Barnicott, stirring the bulging sack with his foot.

Rivett unlashed the mouth of the sack.

"I say, you fellows," he exclaimed, "this is a rummy stunt. The bag's chockfull of silver. No wonder those blighters made themselves scarce; they're burglars." Here was a climax to a day's scouting, despoiling robbers of their booty. Still, the situation required careful handling. If the Scouts left the boat unattended, the thieves might return. If they separated forces, one party standing by while the others tracked the rogues, either part of the divided Troop would be insufficient to cope with two powerful and desperate men. It seemed remarkable that the two fellows should have landed with their booty in broad daylight instead of waiting until darkness set in.

"Any of you fellows know how to row?" he asked.

"I do," replied Phillips. "My father has a boat, and in the 'hols' I go fishing with him."

"Good man!" exclaimed the Patrol Leader approvingly. "You and I are going off to the motor-boat to take charge of her. Dentibus, old son, imagine you're doing the mile in the College sports, and cut off as hard as you can to Weymouth. Find our Scoutmaster, and tell him what has occurred. Ask him to bring a motor-boat along to tow us into the harbour. The others will double along to Osmington Mills and warn the coastguard. Phillips and I will keep a sharp look-out for signals if you have to semaphore to us. Give a hand with the dinghy first. The silver? We'll take that on board."

The little boat was successfully launched with no other casualty than a couple of wet shirts.

"Take care not to destroy the trail," cautioned Rusty from the dinghy, addressing the party told off for the purpose of reporting the incident to the coastguard.

Without much difficulty Rivett and Phillips boarded the _Olivette_. An examination of the boat resulted in the discovery, amongst other things, of a bundle of charts on each of which appeared the words: "1st Milford Sea Scouts".

"You're right then, John," remarked

Rusty. "This boat's been stolen. There's no doubt about that. It's up to us to do the Milford chaps a good turn by taking care of the _Olivette_ until they claim her."

Before very long a semaphore message was received from Barnicott.

"Coastguard has telephoned to Weymouth police," read the message.

"There's a boat coming this way," announced Phillips.

The Patrol Leader, who had been examining the motor, called back:

"Where from? From Weymouth?"

"No," replied the scout. "From Osmington. There are two coastguardsmen in her."

Rusty Rivett showed no enthusiasm over the intelligence. He wanted the rescue of the _Olivette_ to be a Scout "stunt", and he rather resented the coastguards butting in. That meant complications.

"Cheerio, my hearty!" exclaimed one of the "Bobbies", as the skiff-dinghy ranged alongside. "We'll relieve you. Jim, put these Scouts ashore in our boat."

Rusty got his back up. He belied his nickname, for there was precious little oxydization of grey matter about him.

"Thanks," he replied. "We're staying on board."

"You'll be sea-sick for a dead cert," said the coastguard insinuatingly. "There's a bit of a lop on. Best go ashore afore you musters your bag."

"I beg your pardon," rejoined Rusty politely, "I haven't a bag to muster. There's a sack on board, but that's going to be handed over to the Weymouth police."

The man began to grin at the first part of the Patrol Leader's reply, but towards the end he looked decidedly glum. Unless he could persuade the Scouts to leave the vessel, he and his mate were "out of it" as far as salvage was concerned. Rusty knew that. He was determined to do the Milford Sea Scouts a good turn, which included a saving of money that otherwise would have to be paid to the Receiver of Wrecks.

"You weren't born yesterday, I see," observed the coastguard caustically.

"No," replied the Patrol Leader sweetly. "In 1906. But that's neither here nor there, is it?"

"Are you staying on board all night?" inquired the man. "If so, like as not this 'ere boat'll drag and come up on the beach. You'd better----"

"Stay where I am," interrupted Rivett. "For a little while: yes. As a matter of fact we're expecting a motor-boat from Weymouth to tow her in."

The two coastguards, finding that the _Olivette_ was in no immediate danger, thereupon rowed off. As they went, the Patrol Leader overheard one remark: "There ain't no flies on that Scout, Bill. Well, jolly good luck to him, says I."

Rusty repented his action. The whole-hearted opinion of the bluejacket showed that he was a good sort.

"Ahoy, there!" shouted the Patrol Leader. "Come back, please."

The men backed their oars and came alongside once more.

"Thought better on it?" asked the one addressed as Bill.

"Yes, and no," replied Rusty; "Look here: you think we're after salvage?"

"Sure," said the man.

"We're not," declared the Patrol Leader. "This boat belongs to the Milford Sea Scouts. She was stolen; we found her, and we mean to hand her back. Scouts do not receive rewards for doing good turns, especially to one another. And I quite see you wanted to stand in."

"That's so, sir," agreed Bill respectfully.

"Then take charge of the bag. It's full of silver stuff, probably stolen from somewhere. If there's a reward offered for its recovery, the money's yours."

With many expressions of thanks the two coastguards rowed of with the booty, and before their boat reached the beach of Osmington Mills, a motor-boat was observed leaving Weymouth and heading for the _Olivette_.

It was the rescue party, consisting of the Scoutmaster of the 5th Weymouth Troop, the skipper and owner of the motor-boat, Dentibus Dent, and two other members of the Troop, who had not taken part in the day's operations.

"Well done, Rivett," exclaimed the Scoutmaster. "We'll take the _Olivette_ in tow. Signal to the rest of the Troop to make their way back to the college. Can you two fellows manage the anchor by yourselves?"

An hour later the _Olivette_ was safely moored close to the bridge in Weymouth Harbour. The Scoutmaster and the Patrol Leader proceeded at once to the Post Office, where they dispatched a telegram to the Milford Sea Scouts: "Yacht _Olivette_ here in charge of 5th Weymouth Troop. Undamaged. Come for her at any time."