With Woodleigh at the helm and Roche giving an occasional look at the smoothly-running motor, the rest of the crew knew that they had nothing to worry about. Slipping off their jerseys, they lay upon the deck, basking in the glorious sunshine, too happy and contented even to indulge in conversation beyond a few words of appreciative admiration or the superb view. "Port helm a couple of points, Woodleigh," ordered the Patrol Leader, after consulting the chart. "We'll have to give Kimmeridge Ledges a wide berth." Mr. Armitage, hearing the caution, nodded his head approvingly. Stratton had acted upon his own initiative in spite of being a stranger to this part of the coast. The Scoutmaster had placed the responsibility upon the lad's shoulders, and Peter had shown that the trust had not been accepted lightly. "Isn't that where the _Treveal_ was wrecked two winters ago, sir?" asked Flemming. "Yes," replied Mr. Armitage, pointing shorewards. "About there. Every vestige of the vessel has disappeared by this time. It's a bad piece of coast, with parallel reefs extending seawards. A vessel doesn't stand a dog's chance if she gets held up on those ledges." "Why don't they have a lighthouse?" asked Hepburn. "One on St. Alban's Head would warn seamen." "I don't know," replied Mr. Armitage. "If there had been one where you suggest, Alan, it would have saved a good many precious lives. You see, Anvil Point Lighthouse, which is hidden by St. Alban's Head, is useless to a ship that is driven too close inshore. Now then, you fellows, unless you want a ducking, you'd better come aft. We're nearing the Race." Less than half a mile ahead the otherwise smooth sea was agitated with a patch of white-crested breakers extending seawards for more than a couple of miles. Even at that distance the waves looked decidedly dangerous. "We've got to go through that, sir?" asked Warkworth. "Isn't there any way to avoid it?" "By keeping a tremendous way out," replied the Scoutmaster. "It's fairly rough, but I've known it decidedly worse. Woodleigh." "Sir?" "Steer straight for the headland now. There's plenty of water. We shall probably miss a lot of the race by keeping close to the cliff--twenty yards will be near enough." "What causes a race, sir?" asked the Tenderfoot. "The tide surging over a submerged ledge," replied Mr. Armitage. "It's deep water on both sides of the headland and only a few fathoms over the rocks extending seawards from it. Now, you fellows, all hands into the well; we don't want anyone slung overboard into the ditch." "The dinghy, sir?" inquired Flemming. "She won't hurt. Her painter's sound," replied the Scoutmaster. "There's enough scope to prevent her overrunning us and smashing her bows under our counter."