CHAPTER IX

Broken Down in Mid-Channel

Peter Stratton carried out his instructions to the letter. Upon rounding the Needles he steered in the direction of St. Catherine's, keeping a mile and a half from shore, in order to give a wide berth to the dangerous Atherfield Ledges, ridges of sharp rock that have sealed the fate of many a gallant ship and her crew. It was slow work plugging against a strong west-going tide, but, as Mr. Armitage had remarked, it was better to have a foul tide to begin with and a fair one when the _Olivette_ approached the French coast, than the reverse.

At seven o'clock the _Olivette_ was in a position to "make her departure", and accordingly she was set on the given course for her eighty odd miles' run across the Channel.

"We're a long time losing sight of land," observed Woodleigh, when an hour later the chalk cliffs of St. Catherine's were still visible in the slanting rays of the sun.

"It's the height that tells," rejoined Peter. "We're a good ten miles off. We're running at eight knots only."

"Why only eight?" asked Rayburn.

"Because, if we cracked on at full speed we'd stand to pile ourselves upon the rocks on t' other side in the darkness," replied the Patrol Leader.

Stratton was kept fairly busy. The _Olivette_ was now in the steamer track, where vessels proceeding up and down Channel make it a practice of keeping within certain limits of St. Catherine's. There were ships of all sizes and descriptions. A P. & O. liner, homeward bound, was passing a Bullard mail-boat on the way to the Cape and East Africa. Ambling along at a very modest speed were colliers, "tankers", and tramps, while a full-rigged Dutchman, carrying every stitch of canvas, formed a striking contrast to the mechanically propelled craft.

A little later a couple of destroyers, in line ahead, came pelting down Channel. Although they passed not less than a quarter of a mile from the _Olivette_, their "wash" broke furiously over the boat's bows, sending spray high above the wheelhouse.

Then, as the _Olivette_ drew away from the "lane", the stream of shipping ceased, and as sunset approached she was alone on a waste of placid water.

At ten the relief watch was called. Mr. Armitage came on deck wearing his pilot coat. He made no attempt to check the course or to offer any suggestions. He was placing his crew entirely on their mettle, but from what he saw he had no cause to criticize.

Stratton, having "handed over" to Warkworth, went below, where Hepburn had a hot supper ready for those of the crew who had come off duty.

"Where's Roche?" he inquired, seeing that the rest of the watch--Woodleigh and Rayburn--were already "tucking in" with avidity.

"Yarning with Flemming about something," replied Woodleigh. "I fancy there's trouble in the engine-room."

Presently Roche appeared.

"Lend me your torch, Peter, old son," he said.

"Aren't you grubbing?" asked the Patrol Leader.

Roche shook his head.

"I'm seeing this thing through first," he replied. "She's not been running well this last hour or two. Too rich a mixture, I think. Flemming and I are going to take the jet out, but before we start I want to see how much oil there is in the main tank."

Peter handed Roche his torch.

"We'll keep your grub hot," he added as the engineer hurried out of the cabin.

In less than a minute Roche returned.

"We're in a bad way," he announced. "She's been mopping up the juice like anything. The paraffin tank's nearly empty."

"Why, how's that?" asked Stratton.

"Punctured float, I'm afraid," replied Roche. "We'll have to stop the motor for half an hour or so."

"Right-o," assented the Patrol Leader, pushing away his cup, saucer, and plate. "I'll come and bear a hand. Have you reported to Mr. Armitage?"

The Scoutmaster received the news without expressing any suggestion.

"Carry on," he remarked.

The Sea Scouts accordingly "carried on". They had but one red lamp on board in addition to the port light. Two red masthead lights were required to indicate that the _Olivette_ was not under command. It was the Tenderfoot who solved the problem by suggesting that the white masthead light should be covered with the fold of the Red Ensign.

The "not under command" lights were hoisted, and the port and starboard ones extinguished. The ignition to the motor was switched off, and Stratton, Roche, and Flemming proceeded to take down the carburetter, while Woodleigh held the electric torch to enable them to see what they were doing.

They worked methodically, placing a piece of canvas under the carburetter to catch any nut that might be accidentally dropped, while all the loose parts were carefully placed in a small tin box.

The float was deftly removed.

"It feels suspiciously heavy," declared Flemming. "Yes, it's chock full of paraffin or petrol."

"Take it into the after-cabin," said Peter. "We'll solder it there. It will be a jolly sight safer away from the engine-room. Get the Tinol box out, Dick."

The first part of the operation was the boiling of the float. The hot water would not only cause the confined air to escape and indicate the position of the leak, it would also expel the petrol.

The task was proceeding most satisfactorily when the _Olivette_ suddenly began to roll in the swell of a distant steamer. Before the Sea Scouts could prevent it, the stove capsized, throwing the saucepan and its contents upon the floor. Instantly the petrol--fortunately only a few teaspoonfuls--burst into flames.

Flemming made a dash for the Pyrene extinguisher, but before he returned, Roche and the Patrol Leader had quenched the flames by smothering them with a blanket. But the worst was to come, for, when Peter picked up the still hot brass cylinder, the solder had melted and the float was irreparably damaged.

Without the float the motor couldn't function. There the Scouts were, almost in mid-Channel, in a boat that was now at the mercy of wind and tide.

"There's one blessing," remarked Roche. "We've got the fire out."

"At the expense of a jolly good blanket," added Flemming.

"Better a burnt blanket than a burnt boat," rejoined Roche. "What's to be done now?"

"Never say die," quoted Stratton. "Find a chunk of cork, someone. There's plenty on board. We'll make a cork float."

"No good without shellac," objected Roche. "It will go to pieces in the petrol."

"Let it, then," said Peter with a laugh. "The pieces can't come out of the old metal float. I'll pack it full of cork and tap over the ends. We'll have the old hooker making way in another twenty minutes."

The suggestion was quickly acted upon. By the aid of a light hammer Stratton succeeded in refixing the unsoldered end of the float, having previously filled it with cork. Although not so buoyant as an air-filled float, the substitute served its purpose, the only drawback being a rather heavy consumption of fuel; but directly the carburetter was replaced, the motor restarted without hesitation.

"Phew!" ejaculated Stratton, wiping his heated brow. "Do you know what the time is? A quarter past twelve. I'm turning in."

Before so doing, the Patrol Leader went on deck to have a look round. The night was dark, the sea calm. Almost dead ahead a white glare appeared above the horizon every five seconds. It was from the lighthouse of Cape de la Hogue.

Right astern a powerful beam seemed to travel across the sky, with the same speed and regularity as the light ahead. It was St. Catherine's, making a gesture of farewell from the shores of England, now nearly forty miles astern.

Aloft, the _Olivette's_ two red lights had been replaced by her ordinary white masthead light; her port and starboard lamps were once more burning brightly. Inside the wheel-house, the faint glare from the binnacle shone upon Warkworth's solemn features as the lad kept the boat on her course.

Right in the eyes of the ship stood the motionless figure of Tom Boldrigg. No doubt his thoughts were going back to those far-off times when he performed a similar duty as look-out man upon one of His Majesty's ships, or perhaps he was thinking of the still-distant land where his soldier son slept his long rest.

Right aft, with his feet placed firmly apart and his hands clasped behind his back, stood the Scoutmaster. No doubt he, too, was thinking of how he stood thus under the shadow of the White Ensign, and was recalling vivid yet pleasant pictures of those strenuous days of the Great War.

Seeing Stratton appear on deck, Mr. Armitage walked towards him.

"All correct, sir," reported the Patrol Leader.

"That's good," rejoined Mr. Armitage. "When the motor gave out, I guessed you fellows would be equal to the task of getting it going again. And I was not mistaken."