"Yes, sir," was the reply in chorus. "Well, I'm not going to," was Mr. Grant's somewhat disconcerting response, but there was a sly twinkle in his eyes that told the crew pretty plainly that their Scoutmaster would speedily solve the perplexing problem. "You're going to choose Scout fashion. Brandon, bring me a piece of old rope out of the junk locker, please." The Patrol-leader brought the required article. Deliberately Mr. Grant unlaid a portion of the rope and cut off seven pieces each about three inches in length, and one piece an inch shorter. "Now," he continued. "Face outward and don't look this way until I tell you." Obediently the crew gazed stolidly at a fishing smack moored alongside the opposite quay, notwithstanding a strong inclination to know what was going on behind their backs. "Now, this way!" The Sea Scouts faced about. On the coaming of the cockpit lay the signal code-book, while from beneath the latter projected eight pieces of rope each showing an equal length. "The fellow who draws the short piece is to be ship-keeper," explained Mr. Grant. "Now, Symington, Talbot, Hopcroft, Carline, Phillips, Wilson." As each lad's name was called he drew out one of the rope-yarns. Some chose theirs boldly, others hesitated, making several feints before taking the plunge, especially as the number of rope-yarns diminished without the short end coming to light. "Now, Craddock." Peter Craddock gave a swift glance at his comrade in the final--Patrol-leader Brandon. "Take the one on your left," suggested Brandon. But Peter chose the other; it was the short end. "Hard lines, partner!" exclaimed Brandon. True to his principles Peter Craddock kept smiling, though it was with envious eyes that he saw his chums "smartening-up" for their visit to the Lydiard Scouts' camp. "Cheerio, Peter," was Scoutmaster Grant's parting greeting. "We'll be back about ten--half-past ten at the latest. Don't forget the riding-lamp." The Sea Scouts jumped ashore. Craddock watched them along the quay and over the swing-bridge until they disappeared round the corner of the Custom House. Then he settled down to his seven hours' "trick." There was not much to be done or to be seen. Sablesham Harbour was almost deserted. The fishing fleet, with a few exceptions, was out. A couple of grimy colliers were discharging their cargo at the gasworks. A French smack with her hold full of onions had just arrived. All these vessels lay along the east quay. The west quay was untenanted with the exception of the _Puffin_, which lay about a hundred yards inside the curved arm of the pier. After a while Craddock retired to the cabin, and was soon deeply engrossed in +THE SCOUT+. Tea was rather a sorry meal eaten in solitude, but Peter, methodical in most matters, washed up and stowed the things away.