"I tell him keep to dis side," he declared, "and he vit intent deliberate 'e put ze ship across de bow of ze tug so. I protest, Monsieur; I chuck in ze 'and so." The pilot folded his arms, stood with his feet well apart, and gazed stolidly ahead. It was his pose of lofty detachment. Mr. Armitage made his way to the wheelhouse, where Peter, unconscious of the enormity of his offence, was carrying on quite unconcernedly. Fortunately the _Olivette_ was still a long way from the dangerous sandbank-encumbered estuary, and the navigation presented no difficulty. "What's the row you've had with the pilot, Peter?" inquired Mr. Armitage. "Row, sir? I didn't have a row. He told me to starboard. I expected him to tell me to port helm, but I carried out his orders. Then he began roaring like a lunatic. If I had hesitated and ported helm, there would have been a most awful smash." "There has been a mistake," admitted the Scoutmaster, "and I'm to blame as much as anyone. I ought to have warned you '_tribord_' is the French for 'starboard' and '_bâbord_' for port, but that's not enough. When a Frenchman orders '_tribord_' he means that the boat's bows are to go to starboard and not the helm. He ought to have made allowances, for it's pretty certain that this is not the first British vessel he's piloted. I'll get Hepburn to take the wheel for a spell, and we'll explain to our worthy pilot." The Frenchman was easily mollified after explanations had been given. With a bow he declared that "ze affaire" was over and forgotten, but during the rest of the voyage down the estuary he took good care to say, "Port ze helm dis vay," or, "Turn ze ship's 'ead to ze left." In four hours, keeping at full speed, and with a tide under her, the _Olivette_ was clear of the estuary and pitching to the short, sharp seas off the Grand Rade of Havre. Here the pilot was dropped, a boat from the pilot cutter coming alongside to take him off. "Do not make ze tarry, monsieur," he said to Mr. Armitage. "Ze weather it looks not nice. By dark, it blow ver' 'ard." "Let's hope he's wrong for once," thought the Scoutmaster. "All the same, the glass is falling, so the sooner we get into sheltered water the better." He glanced to wind'ard. The sky was of a deep blue, without a cloud being visible. The breeze blew strongly from the south'ard. It was a favourable wind for Old England's shores. He waved his hand in acknowledgment of the pilot's warning. "Let her rip, Flemming," he ordered. "Full speed ahead."