Alas, for that surmise! Just about noon the wind failed entirely, and the _Thetis_, with jack topsail set above her mainsail and a jib-headed topsail over her mizzen, was helplessly becalmed. She had set every possible stitch of canvas, but to no purpose. There she lay, rolling sluggishly, with the main-boom swinging from side to side with a succession of jerks that every sailing man knows and has good cause to hate. The rays of the sun beat pitilessly down upon the deck, while the oily surface of the water reflected the glare and seemed to throw off as much heat as that from the orb of day. Mr. Grant gave an inquiring glance at his chum, but Mr. Clifton shook his head. "No," he replied, "we won't use the engine. Bad seamanship--very. Motors weren't known in my young days, and we yachtsmen got on very well without them. Always managed to fetch somewhere after a calm." So they stuck it. It was a tedious experience. Nothing could be done. The _Thetis_ wallowed and rolled, swept slowly and imperceptibly along by a steady two-knot tide. The low-lying shore was invisible, there were no buoys or beacons in sight, not even another sail--nothing to be seen but an expanse of cloudless sky and mirror-like sea. "How about grub?" inquired the owner of the _Thetis_, shaking off his drowsiness and stretching his cramped limbs. The suggestion met with unqualified approval. "All right," added Scoutmaster Grant. "Craddock and I will get the food ready, if you'll stand by the tiller." Accordingly Peter made for the fo'c'sle and started up the Primus stove, while Mr. Grant prepared the saloon table and foraged in the tiny pantry. The kettle was almost on the point of boiling when Mr. Clifton shouted down the companion. "On deck, you two! There's a brute of a squall coming!" The warning was instantly acted upon. On gaining the deck Craddock saw that it was not an exaggerated one. Less than a quarter of a mile away the hitherto tranquil sea was being lashed into a triangular sheet of white foam--one of those sudden squalls that, although rare, are to be met with in British waters, and of which the barometer gives little or no warning. "Down with the jack-yarder!" ordered the skipper. "Take the helm, Peter, and luff her up when the squall strikes her." The two men sprang to the topsail halliard, sheet and downhaul. The two latter "rendered" without a hitch, but the halliard obstinately refused to run through the block. "Jammed!" exclaimed Mr. Clifton, bringing all his weight to bear upon the downhaul in a vain effort to lower the canvas. "Lower away the peak! That'll ease her." Before the peak halliard of the mainsail could be cast off from the fife-rail belaying-pin, the squall struck the yacht. With a shrill, eerie shriek the first puff hit the hitherto becalmed vessel, and in spite of her stiffness threw her over almost on to her beam ends, so much so that water poured in torrents over the lee coamings into the water-tight cockpit.