CHAPTER VI

Why the Water Failed

"Are we staying here long, sir?" asked Hepburn.

"That depends upon how soon we recover our compass," replied the Scoutmaster. "Why did you ask?"

"Because I'd like to take these films ashore and get them developed, sir," explained Alan.

Mr. Armitage looked rather surprised.

"I thought you did your own developing and printing," he remarked.

"Usually, sir," replied the lad, "but I've taken something that might be a bit exciting, and I'm in a hurry to see the result."

The _Olivette_ was lying off Poole, in an anchorage locally known as "off Stakes".

It was well above the approach-channel to the quays, and consequently, out of the way of traffic, except for a few yachts and fishing-boats and an occasional barge engaged in carrying clay.

"Right-o," agreed Mr. Armitage. "I'm going ashore now to make inquiries. Anyone else for the beach?"

At length the dinghy pushed off, Hepburn and Warkworth rowing, and the Scoutmaster in the stern-sheets. The rest of the crew elected to remain on board, especially after seeing a man in a neighbouring yacht hook a couple of flounders in quick succession. They, too, meant to try their luck with hook and line.

"How about bait?" inquired Flemming. "There's a youngster digging for ragworms on the mud-flats. We'll hail him and get him to sell us some."

The boy quickly responded to the hail, and plodding along on mud-pattens to the water's edge, jumped into a flat-bottomed punt and rowed off to the _Olivette_.

A bargain was soon struck, and for the sum of sixpence Flemming obtained a rusty tin containing between thirty and forty slimy, writhing worms. The hooks were baited and the lines paid out. Patiently the "band of hope" waited, but save for the quivering of the lines in the tideway, the ground tackle was quite idle.

"Slow work this," observed Roche, giving envious glances at the fellow on the neighbouring yacht, who was hauling in prizes with unfailing regularity. "How is it that that merchant has all the fun, and we don't get so much as a bite?"

The sun set in a blood-red sky, betokening a continuance of fine weather. As the orb of day disappeared behind the distant hills the young flood set in.

Then did the Sea Scouts' luck change. "Dabs", plaice, and flounders were hauled on board in quick succession, until a pailful of fish represented the combined efforts of four lads in under half an hour.

Suddenly Flemming gave a shout of astonishment as his line was almost jerked out of his hand.

"I've hooked a whopper!" he exclaimed. "Doesn't the thing tug?"

"Play with him, then," suggested Peter. "He'll break your line if you don't."

"He's almost broken my fingers," rejoined the excited sportsman. "That's the whole of my line, too."

"Haul in gently," cautioned the Patrol Leader. "For goodness sake don't lose the fish."

Inch by inch, foot by foot, the thin line came inboard, until a furious swirl announced that the "catch" was not far from the surface.

The rest of the Sea Scouts left their lines and crowded round the wildly excited Flemming.

"It's a twenty-pounder, Eric," declared Woodleigh. "You're in luck."

"Twenty-pounder!" ejaculated the wellnigh breathless Flemming scornfully. "Feels like a ton.... Hello! What is it?"

"An eel--conger, most likely," declared Stratton, as a hideous head appeared. "Stand by with your knife, Woodleigh, and nick the brute behind the neck when Flemming gets it on board."

Resisting to the last, the salt-water reptile was hauled up the side and thrown on deck. At the second attempt Woodleigh succeeded in hacking the eel just behind its head.

"That's settled it!" he declared. "What an ugly brute. Now, if old Boldrigg were here, he'd have the eel skinned in a brace of shakes, and would wrap the skin round his ankle."

"What for?" asked Rayburn.

"He says an eel's skin is a certain cure for his rheumatism," replied Woodleigh.

"Old sailor's superstition, more'n likely. When----"

"Coil down and stand by, lads," ordered the Patrol Leader. "Here's Mr. Armitage coming off in the dinghy."

"Well, lads, I see you've had some luck," was the Scoutmaster's greeting as he boarded the _Olivette_, nearly slipping on a flat-fish as he did so.

"Yes, sir," replied Peter; "more than a pailful of them. The one that nearly threw you must have wriggled on to the deck."

"What do you think of this eel, sir?" asked Flemming.

"It's certainly of a decent size," said Mr. Armitage, turning the eel over with his foot. "Ready for supper? I am."

"Roche is cook, sir," announced the Patrol Leader. "He's in the galley now cleaning fish, I think."

"They're cleaned already and in the frying-pan," shouted the cook, who had overheard the dialogue between Mr. Armitage and Stratton. "Get the gear out on the table, Alan, and everything will be ready in a quarter of an hour."

By the time the anchor-lamp was lighted and hoisted, and everything on deck made snug for the night, supper was announced.

"How about the eel?" asked Flemming. "Where is it? Has anyone taken it below?"

No one had seen it during the last ten minutes. A search on the foredeck produced no satisfactory result.

"P'r'aps the thing wasn't dead after all," suggested Warkworth.

"It was as dead as a door nail," declared Flemming, somewhat disappointed at the loss of his trophy. "Did any careless blighter kick it overboard, I wonder?"

"I don't see that it matters very much," said Peter. "None of us like stewed eels, but of course we might have given it away to someone."

The Sea Scouts trooped below to the after cabin, where the supper things were already laid.

Roche thrust his head through the open doorway.

"We're short of water," he declared. "It took quite a time to fill the kettle."

"What?" exclaimed Stratton. "Why, we only filled the tank the day before we launched the boat. Are you sure it's empty?"

"Look for yourself, my festive," suggested Flemming.

Peter went for'ard. Under the wheel-house was a tap communicating with the fresh-water tank under the foredeck. Upon turning the tap the Patrol Leader had to come to the conclusion that the cook's report was correct. There was only a slight trickle of water.

"Evidently our friends the thieves were a bit heavy on the fresh water," remarked Mr. Armitage. "Wonder what they used such a quantity for? Fortunately there's enough to make the cocoa with. To-morrow we'll run alongside the quay and fill up by means of a hose."

The night passed without incident, although Bruin persisted in barking at the few belated craft that were making for their moorings. The Sea Scouts were getting used to this sort of thing, for whenever the _Olivette_ was in a strange harbour, the dog seemed to have a fixed idea that no other boat ought to be in the vicinity; and when, as often happened, there was another dog to be seen, Bruin simply bristled with indignation and barked the more. "Water rats," as the longshore thieving fraternity are called, wouldn't have much chance surreptitiously to acquire the _Olivette's_ gear when Bruin was on board.

Next morning Hepburn, who was "cook of the day", could only obtain enough fresh water for half a cup of tea per head, and then only by waiting patiently at the full-open tap while the water trickled slowly.

So directly the dry meal was over the crew set to work to take the _Olivette_ into the harbour. Here they found no vacant berth alongside the quay, but under the harbourmaster's directions they brought up against a three-masted schooner flying the Italian ensign.

"The _Giuseppe Emilio_," said Roche, reading the name on her stern. "She's a whacking big craft. Wonder what she's for?"

"Loading clay," replied Mr. Armitage. "There's a great quantity of clay shipped away from Poole. Stand by: here comes the hose."

As a matter of fact there were two hoses coupled together, leading from the hydrant on the quay across the _Giuseppe Emilio's_ deck to the _Olivette_.

"How many gallons do you want, sir?" shouted the harbourmaster's assistant.

"Two hundred, please," replied the Scoutmaster; "we're all ready."

Roche had opened the deck-plate, and had inserted the nozzle of the hose into the three-inch pipe leading to the tank. There was a preliminary gurgle, and then like a young torrent the water poured into the tank.

"This is some stunt," declared Roche. "Better than pouring it in bucket by bucket as we usually do."

Before anyone could offer any remark, the tank overflowed. Roche, attempting to point the hose overboard, slipped on the streaming deck. Still grasping the nozzle, he sprawled at full length, while a high-pressure jet caught the Tenderfoot full in the face, hurling him backwards into Flemming's arms, and simply soaked every Scout in the well.

Before anyone could go to Roche's assistance, gallons of water had flowed into the boat. The Italian seamen, who were leaning over the bulwarks, screamed with amusement, until Woodleigh, grasping the nozzle, directed the jet upwards into their faces. Then their laughter gave place to furious gesticulations.

"Turn off!" shouted Stratton to the invisible attendant at the hydrant.

There was no response. It was not until the Patrol Leader hoisted himself on to the _Giuseppe Emilio's_ chain-plates and crossed her deck and sprang ashore that the flow of water ceased.

"You said two hundred gallons," said the man, pointing to the meter attached to the hydrant, "and you've had less than eighty."

"And at least half of that wasted," added Stratton. "Something's wrong somewhere."

There was. Subsequent examination of the tank, which was possible by removing a watertight cover-plate, resulted in the discovery of Flemming's eel with its head wedged firmly in the outlet pipe. Although its head had been half severed, the eel had contrived to insert his tail under the deck-plate, and had prised open the metal cover sufficiently to enable it to wriggle down the feed-pipe into the tank. Then in a futile attempt to escape, the eel had jammed its head into the outlet, thus preventing the water to flow.

"There's some satisfaction in finding out why the water failed," remarked Mr. Armitage as he retired to his cabin to change his saturated garments.