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 Aloft, the _Olivette's_ two red lights had been replaced by her ordinary white masthead light; her port and starboard lamps were once more burning brightly.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.