"Do the Customs people ever search your yacht?" was the next question. "No, why should they?" replied Peter. "We aren't smugglers, and we've never taken her across Channel. We may some day. 'Sides, the Customs officers know all about us." "'Fraid I'm not a good sailor," admitted the stranger. "I'd be seasick. Well, I must be moving. Hope you'll have good luck when the tide makes. Good morning." "Good morning," replied Craddock. The young man took half a dozen steps. Then he turned abruptly and came back. "By the bye," he said, "as you are a native of this place perhaps you can give me the address of a Mr. Grant--Theodore Grant." "I should just think I could!" exclaimed Peter. "He's our Scoutmaster. He lives at Seamore Villa, just beyond the Martello Tower. But it's no use your calling. He won't be in." "Won't be in?--that's a pity." "'Cause he's away for three or four days," explained the Sea Scout. "And if he weren't, you wouldn't find him at home, 'cause he'd be out sailing with us," he added. "Grant's away for a few days, you say? Do you happen to know where he's staying?" "At Sablesham." "Why, that's only twenty miles away," rejoined the stranger, his face brightening. "I can easily slip over there on my motorbike. Whereabouts in Sablesham is he staying, do you know?" Yes, Peter did know, and forthwith gave the required information. Then, with another "Good morning!" the bright young man walked briskly off and disappeared from view round the corner of the High Street. At eight o'clock on the following morning the Scouts assembled at the Sea Scouts Hall, as their clubroom was called. The daily routine consisted of hoisting the ensign, cleaning out the hall, scrubbing and smartening up the dinghy and her gear, and finally airing sails and "turning over" the motor of the _Puffin_, the Aberstour Sea Scouts' eight-ton auxiliary cutter. Then, in ordinary circumstances, the patrol on duty went away on a short cruise, while the rest of the Sea Scouts amused themselves as best they could, since it was out of the question to stow twenty-four growing lads on an eight-tonner except in relays. But this was no ordinary circumstance. The Scoutmaster, Mr. Grant, had been called away on urgent business, and without him, or another responsible "grown-up," the Sea Scouts were not allowed to put to sea. It was disappointing, but being Scouts they kept smiling. "I had a letter from Mr. Grant this morning," announced Frank Brandon, Patrol-leader of the Otters, a hefty, sun-burned youth of eighteen, who in addition to being an excellent swimmer was a boxer of no mean prowess. "He says he cannot possibly get back before next Tuesday." This time the Otters did not smile. Instead of being deprived of their trip in the _Puffin_ until Friday, it meant that their turn would not come round again before half of the next week had passed. "But," continued the Patrol-leader, "that's only half the news. Cheer up!"