"What's happened, Peter?" asked Hepburn. "Has someone been fooling about in the night?" "Goodness knows," replied the Patrol Leader. "Frost might account for it but we don't get frosts in July. The paint hasn't taken. We'll have to scrape it all off. And Mr. Armitage is due back to-morrow." While the Sea Scouts were still contemplating the unaccountable misfortune, an old man approached. They knew him very well. His name was Boldrigg, and he was a pensioned naval seaman, who, having served as a coastguard, had settled down at Keyhaven. He was a widower, and had lost both his sons in the War--one a seaman gunner, in the Jutland Battle, and the other a corporal in a line regiment, "somewhere in France". "Ahoy, there!" shouted the old man. "Tied up in knots about something I'll warrant. What's adrift?" Peter pointed to the oyster-shell markings and blisters. "Fresh on yesterday, Mr. Boldrigg," he declared, "and look at it now. Paint's rotten." The ex-coastguard walked to the side of the _Olivette_ and prodded the sticky mess with a horny finger. "It's got to come off, anyway," he remarked apologetically, "so it don't hurt to touch it. No, Master Stratton, 'tain't the paint that's at fault. You've been a-usin' sooji mooji." "Yes," admitted the Patrol Leader, glancing at his discoloured finger-nails. "Caustic soda. We had to; the old paint was on so hard." "There you are; there you are!" exclaimed the old sailor, shaking his head. "You puts on stuff to take paint off, an' expects new paint to stick over the sooji mooji. 'Tis like destroying weeds with weed-killer and expecting seed to grow on the same ground that's been poisoned, so to speak." "Then how----" began Roche. "Half a shake, my lad," continued Boldrigg. "Live and learn. You want to get the paint off. An old brush'll do that. Then wash your wood down with vinegar and water to kill the caustic soda in it. When it's dry, paint away, and you'll find that coat'll be all correct an' above board." All hands set briskly to work. It was one thing trying to repair a fault for which no reason was forthcoming; another to profit by experience, with the knowledge that the mistake could be rectified. By eleven in the morning the _Olivette_ was once more resplendent in a glistening garb of grey. "We'll have to make one coat do," decided Stratton, "and whack on the final one at the first favourable opportunity. Bruin! Come away from that varnish. It's not treacle, old son." "When do we launch her?" inquired Woodleigh. "When the paint's dry," replied the Patrol Leader. "It ought to be set by seven o'clock to-night. We might try launching her on the evening tide. Are you all game?" A chorus of assent greeted Stratton's suggestion. "Right-o," continued Peter. "We've done all that is to be done for the present." "The ballast?" queried Hepburn.