"THIS has been a dud cruise, if you like!" observed Patrol-leader Brandon to his particular chum, Craddock. "Mind, I'm not saying that it hasn't been awfully enjoyable, but nothing's happened." "Do you want anything to happen?" asked Peter. "I don't. I'm quite content to take things as they are in the _Puffin_." All the same the weekly cruise had been uneventful. The _Puffin_ had stood well out into the Channel, and after beating to the westward had put into Crabhaven for the night. She was now on her way back to Aberstour, running with spinnaker set and mainsheet slacked right out before a gentle sou'westerly breeze. Nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. The Sea Scouts' log contained no entries beyond the customary records of the state of the tide and the force and direction of the wind. They hadn't had to reef; they hadn't missed their tide; they hadn't even run aground on making the intricate entrance to Crabhaven. They were now within five miles of their home-port, and dead in the centre of the fairway between the grey cliffs to port and the submerged shoal known as the Grab to starboard. With a fair wind and tide there was every reason to expect that the remaining five miles would be reeled off in quick time and without incident. "Those fellows are a time having their tea," commented Peter, as the sound of chattering voices came from the cabin where the rest of the crew were doing full justice to good fare with their healthy appetites. "Aren't you peckish, Frank?" "Just about," agreed the Patrol-leader. "But I'd rather hang on to the tiller than waste time over grub. Hello! Wind's dropping. Does it mean we'll have to sweep the yacht the rest of the way?" The breeze was certainly falling off. Already the _Puffin's_ mainsheet was dropping in the water, and her spinnaker was no longer curving before the following wind. Yet she was still making way and answering to her helm. "What's that right ahead, old son?" asked Peter, pointing in a line with the bowsprit end. "What's what?" rejoined his chum. "I can't see anything." "It's less than twenty yards away. Up helm a bit, or we'll hit it. Looks like a water-logged barrel." Brandon altered the helm a little. Peter grasped a boathook. The object drifted slowly past the yacht's side. The slight alteration of course had enabled her to clear it by about five or six feet. Craddock was about to satisfy his curiosity by prodding it with the tip of the boathook when Brandon grasped him by the wrist. "Hold on!" he exclaimed earnestly. "Be careful! It's a mine." Before the astonished Craddock could offer any comment the Patrol-leader called to Mr. Grant to come on deck. The Scoutmaster appeared promptly, followed by the rest of the crew, who, judging rightly by the Patrol-leader's anxious tone, were anxious to know the reason for the urgent summons. "A mine, sir!" reported Brandon. "By Jove, yes!" agreed Mr. Grant. "We've only just missed it."