in the excitement no one had given a thought to the dinghy. she had been made fast to the shrouds, and apparently the violent wash had caused her to break adrift.

she was now a good fifty yards to leeward, drifting slowly, but evidently uninjured. a portion of the painter still remained bent to the shroud, so there was some slight satisfaction in the knowledge that hayes had not made a slippery hitch. the two-inch rope, almost new, had parted like pack-thread.

"i'm soaked as it is," said desmond, kicking off his shoes. "another little drop won't do me any harm! the oars are in the dinghy, aren't they, hayes?"

the sea scout nodded. that was good enough for the patrol leader. the next instant he dived in over the side and began striking out for the errant dinghy.

the first twenty yards was a hard struggle, for the flood-tide was setting strongly athwart the swimmer's course, but, as soon as he was over the ledge on which the spindrift had grounded, the cross-current was not so perceptible. there was now six feet of water over this part of the reef, but the long trailing kelp, which at low tide had been lying dormant on the rocks, was now rising vertically to within eighteen inches of the surface.

it was an unpleasant sensation when desmond's feet touched the trailing tentacles of weed. although slimy, they had a distinct tendency to entangle him. they impeded his progress. he tried to keep his feet closer to the surface to evade the kelp, but to no purpose.

the while the dinghy was drifting slowly but steadily towards a cluster of rocks, appropriately named the verticals, against which the surf was lashing. once she got within the limits of that broken water she would be done for, and desmond would have all his work cut out to swim back to the yacht.

at length, finding his progress tedious and difficult, the patrol leader turned over on his back. his feet were in consequence nearer the surface, and, aided by the fin-like movements of his hands, desmond found that the weed no longer hampered him.

steadily he gained upon the truant, until, with a feeling of relief, he grasped the gunwale. even then, fairly tired with his strenuous efforts, he had to hang on for a minute or so before clambering in over the transom.

there was only one oar in the boat. the other had been jerked overboard by the steamer's wash.

apart from the actual loss, the fact that only one oar remained did not daunt the resourceful patrol leader. sculling over the stern is an accomplishment that almost every sea scout is capable of. the average amateur is "tied up in knots" if called upon to scull a dinghy.

fortunately the little craft had a sculling notch in the transom. quickly desmond had the dinghy under control, and was making good progress towards the spindrift.

"there's the other oar!" he exclaimed to himself, as he caught sight of the missing article. offering no resistance to the breeze, it had drifted much slower than the buoyant dinghy, and on that account it had escaped the patrol leader's notice as he swam. standing up and sculling, he commanded a larger "field" of vision—although the "field" was an expanse of sunlit waves—and thus was able to spot the drifting oar.

"well done, desmond!" exclaimed mr. graham, as the dinghy came alongside the spindrift. the other sea scouts gave their plucky comrade a rousing cheer.

"we'll want a new painter, sir," he remarked.

"findlay will reeve a fresh one," rejoined the scoutmaster. "nip down below and shift your wet gear."

aided by the flood-tide and the little outboard motor, the spindrift was soon back at the anchorage from which she had taken french leave. this time there was no mistake. the crew took good care to see that the anchor was down properly, and in addition they laid out a kedge.

"here we stop until we weigh for the solent, lads," said mr. graham. "unless the harbour master takes it into his head to make us shift our berth. now, findlay and hayes, have you packed up ready for your train journey to southampton?"

the two sea scouts pulled long faces. it was one of those occasions when they forgot the scout precept "keep smiling ".

"no, sir, not yet," was the reply.

"i'm going ashore to telegraph to bedford and coles to join us here," continued the scoutmaster. "but i've been thinking matters over. bradley and the other fellows will be quite at home on the guardship at wootton by this time. we can very well do with a larger crew, so i think you two will be better employed on the spindrift than going back to wootton."

"thank you, sir, awfully!" exclaimed jock, while hayes began a horn-pipe on deck, which came to a rapid and premature end when his bare toe came in painful contact with a gun-metal cleat.

accordingly, a telegram was dispatched to sea scout frank bedford, telling him to arrive at kingswear at 7.30 p.m. on the following day and that coles was to accompany him.

"why did you say kingswear, sir?" inquired hayes, as they came out of the post office.

mr. graham pretended not to hear the question, and hayes did not press the point.

after wandering through the streets of dartmouth and viewing the old-style half-timbered houses of the butterwalk, the crew of the spindrift made their way towards the castle.

they had not gone very far when mr. graham touched hayes on the shoulder.

"just run over to dartmouth railway station and see if there's a parcel for me, please," he said. "we'll wait here till you get back. be as sharp as you can."

hayes hurried off on his errand. when he was out of sight, mr. graham laughed.

"it's a little joke," he explained to the others. "there isn't a railway station at dartmouth. kingswear, across the harbour, is the terminus for dartmouth passengers. it will be rather curious to know how hayes progresses in his search for something that doesn't exist."

"are you expecting a parcel at kingswear station, sir?" asked findlay.

"no, i'm not," replied mr. graham, enjoying the joke immensely. "we'll sit down by the side of the river and wait for developments."

ten minutes passed—twenty—then half an hour. the scoutmaster began to wonder what had happened to his messenger.

"perhaps he's found out you are pulling his leg, sir," suggested desmond.

"and then?"

"he's gone on board," continued the patrol leader. "fed up sort of feeling."

"i don't think hayes would take it that way," declared mr. graham, "or i would not have played a joke upon him. a joke always falls very flat if the victim cannot take it good-temperedly."

three-quarters of an hour passed. the sea scouts were about to return to search for the absent member of the crew when hayes came into view, running and rather short of breath.

"it's there, sir," he began. "there's no railway station at dartmouth, but the first fellow i asked—a scout—told me to go across the harbour to kingswear. there's a ferry across. the chap in the parcel office told me that your box had come, but he wouldn't let me have it. it has to be claimed by the consignee in person."

"i suppose you're trying to pull my leg?" asked mr. graham smilingly.

hayes looked at him in open-eyed astonishment.

"pulling your leg, sir," he repeated. "of course not. i saw the box there—it's a pretty heavy one." the scoutmaster was puzzled. he had arranged for a package to be sent to plymouth, to be picked up on the voyage; but, as far as he knew, no one had been instructed to forward it on.

"well, i suppose i must solve the mystery," he remarked. "you fellows carry on. have a good old ramble round the castle. take your time, provided you are at the quayside at seven."

making his way back to the town, mr. graham crossed the harbour in the spindrift's dinghy, in order that he might take his parcel straight on board the yacht.

at the station he found that the sea scout's statement was correct. there was a large box—about as big as one man could handle—addressed to: w. graham, esq., kingswear station—to be called for.

"four shillings and twopence, please, sir," said the official in charge of the office. "passenger train—special rate. and please sign here."

the scout master signed the buff form, paid the four shillings and twopence, and took possession of the box. failing to find any porters, he manhandled the bulky article himself, but, by the time he deposited it in the stern-sheets of the dinghy, the perspiration was pouring down his face.

all the while he was racking his brains to think who could have sent the box. it had been dispatched from paddington, but there was no indication on the label as to the consignor.

"gear from head-quarters, that's what it is!" exclaimed mr. graham. "wonder i hadn't thought of that before, but how came they to know i am at dartmouth—i'll give that part up."

it had been a fairly difficult single-handed job to transfer the box from the stationary pontoon to the lively little dinghy. the difficulty was increased ten fold when it came to transhipping the "gear" from the dinghy to the higher level of the gently rocking yacht.

at length, with the assistance of the throat halliards, the scoutmaster succeeded in getting the heavy box on to the waterways. then he dragged it aft, and toppled it carefully into the cockpit; but in spite of his caution, he contrived to bark the knuckles of his left hand.

the box was corded, every knot—"grannies" most of them—was smothered with sealing wax. mr. graham was too good a seaman to spoil a sound piece of rope by cutting it. deliberately he undid the knots and did the rope up into a neat coil.

the next step was to prise open the lid. it was nailed down, with a french nail at every two inches all the way round. by the aid of an axe, a screw-driver, and a hammer, mr. graham removed the lid, although in the attempt he split the wood into five or six pieces.

full of pleasurable anticipation following his strenuous endeavours, mr. graham tore aside the canvas wrappings. then he broke into a cold sweat, for the box was crammed with theatrical effects—wigs, eighteenth century costumes, partly used grease paints, and a pile of old posters in which the name—wilfred graham, acting manager—appeared conspicuously.

evidently the gear belonged to a touring company billed to appear for a two night's performance at dartmouth, and the scoutmaster pictured the most unholy row that the actors would kick up when they found that their "props" were not forthcoming.

hastily mr. graham replaced the things he had removed, nailed down the lid and re-corded the box. then came the labour of hoisting it over the side into the dinghy and taking it back to the station.

he arrived almost breathless at the parcels office, just as a very irate man was coming out. the two w. grahams were face to face.

"confound you, sir!" roared the acting manager. "what are you doing with my property?"

"returning it," replied the scoutmaster. "you'll find nothing missing."

"of no value to you, i suppose?" snapped the other, sarcastically.

"that," rejoined mr. graham, "is beside the point. if you will listen to my explanation i think you will see the funny side of the affair. my surname happens to be the same as your own; so do the initials."

as the explanation proceeded, the acting manager's face grew less angry, until he actually laughed.

"all right, dear old boy," he exclaimed. "come and have a drink?"

the scoutmaster declined the invitation.

"then let me give you a couple of tickets for tomorrow night's show," persisted the theatrical man.

"sorry, but we're away to-morrow," was the reply. the two men shook hands and parted, the scoutmaster, hot and tired, making his way to the dinghy.

* * * * *

at seven sharp, the sea scouts were at the quay landing steps. there was no sign of the spindrift's dinghy. the yacht was not visible from where they stood, a large tramp steamer lying between her and the dartmouth side of the harbour.

at half-past seven, no scoutmaster being forthcoming, desmond suggested going on board.

"we can get a boatman to put us off," he said. "it's quite possible mr. graham has gone for a row in the dinghy, and it's taking longer to get back against the tide than he thought."

"and we can have grub ready when he returns," added findlay. "something hot and tasty, you know."

he winked at hayes. desmond, being "cook of the day", didn't greet the suggestion with boisterous enthusiasm.

returning on board the spindrift, the lads prepared for the overdue scoutmaster's arrival. it was not until eight-thirty that mr. graham showed up, looking very hot and tired.

offering no explanation, he sat down at the table where the meal was in readiness. the rest of the crew couldn't understand it. it was not like their scoutmaster.

but half-way through the meal, mr. graham rather astonished them by roaring with laughter.

"hayes, my boy!" he exclaimed, when the fit of merriment was over, "i tried to play a little joke on you this afternoon; but, by jove! it's rebounded on me with a vengeance."

"how, sir?" asked hayes.

mr. graham explained. he was one of those people who enjoy telling a joke against themselves.