"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!"