"It was," agreed Mr. Gregory. "But the Customs people 'smelt a rat.' Before the stranger from London could remove his purchases one of the Customs officers picked up a shoe and knocked the heel off. It was a hollow heel, and inside was a Swiss watch. The Londoner was one of a gang. He got away, but he must have lost a lot of money, for every one of the odd shoes had a watch hidden inside the heel." During the whole of the afternoon the _Puffin_ held on her course. It was one of those delightful, whole mainsail breezes, sufficient to keep the lee rail steadily awash. At five o'clock Otherport was about two miles away on the starboard bow. The wind was falling light, but Mr. Gregory gave no sign that he had noticed the fact, yet the crew knew perfectly well that on the homeward beat they would have a two-knot tide to run against. Half an hour later the yacht was abreast of the harbour piers. The Deputy Scoutmaster brought his glasses to bear upon the crowded port. "H'm," he ejaculated. "I don't think we'll put in. It's later than I thought, lads. Ready about--lee-ho." The head-sail sheets were let fly, mainsheet hauled in and the helm put down. The _Puffin_ went about and settled down on her dead beat to wind'ard. "She's not making much, sir," remarked Brandon. "We've hardly gained on those two leading marks." "Foul tide," explained Mr. Gregory. "We'll keep her on this tack and stand out to sea. We won't feel the tide so much farther out." He glanced at his watch and then looked aloft at the fluttering burgee. "Wind dropping, too," he observed. "No matter. If there's a flat calm we've the motor to fall back upon. Now, you fellows, how about tea?" The meal over and the things stowed away the Sea Scouts gathered in the cock-pit and listened to yarns from their entertaining Acting Scoutmaster. Lower and lower sank the sun, like a ball of fire in a red sky. The sails flapped and finally hung idly in the still air. The sea, unruffled, seemed a blaze of crimson. "Nine o'clock," announced Mr. Gregory. "We'll be a bit late in getting back to our moorings, I fancy. But the glass is high and steady, and the air's warm. We'd better start that engine, or with the tide against us we'll be losing instead of gaining ground." By the aid of an electric torch--for the engine-room under the water-tight cockpit was in darkness--Craddock turned on the petrol, adjusted the ignition and flooded the carburettor. "All ready!" he shouted. The starting-handle was in the cockpit with a chain drive to the crank-shaft passing through a raised hatch. At the word that all was in order the Patrol-leader gave the handle a vigorous swing. It was well for him that he had grasped the handle properly and with due regard to "Safety First." That is to say, he kept his thumb underneath the handle and applied the grip by means of his fingers only. The motor gave a terrific backfire, the handle flying off and narrowly missing Brandon's face. Fortunately it fell inboard.