"'Cause he's a wrong 'un," was the astonishing reply. "He's not a Scoutmaster. He's a smuggler. That stuff we took off that boat is cocaine. He tried to fool us with a forged letter from Mr. Grant; he jiggered the motor so as to keep us out at sea till midnight, and----" "Enough of that silly joking, Craddock!" came the voice of the prisoner through the bulkhead. "Open the door at once." Peter made no reply. "I couldn't warn you before, Frank," he continued, addressing the Patrol-leader. "If I'm wrong I'll take all responsibility, anyway. There's another thing. While we were stowing canvas he was signalling to the strange vessel. It wasn't Morse. I could have read it if it were, as you know, and their reply wasn't Morse either. It was a secret code." "For the last time, Craddock," shouted the captive angrily, "open that door." "Sorry, but you must stay there until we get into port," said the Patrol-leader, answering for Peter. "I'll give you thirty seconds," continued the Scoutmaster. "If by that time I'm not released I'll blow the lock off. I'm armed, I might warn you." "Don't add attempted murder to smuggling," responded Brandon. "You can't tackle eight of us even if you do get out." A tremendous thudding announced that the prisoner was attempting to push the door down with his shoulder. "'Spose he breaks out?" asked Peter dubiously. "I'll tackle him," replied the Patrol-leader with easy confidence. "He daren't shoot, even if he has a revolver, and I guess I'll knock him out if it comes to fists. Cut on deck, Peter, and take charge. Warn the others and tell a couple of them to keep an eye on the fore-hatch. Signal the Customs Watch-house and tell them." CHAPTER IV THE MIS-SPELT WORD IT was half-past two in the morning when the _Puffin_ glided in between the pierheads. Craddock made no attempt to steer for the moorings. He ran the boat alongside the West Pier, the tide being almost full. There on the jetty was Scoutmaster Grant, together with half-a-dozen Customs Officers and a couple of policemen. "You got my telegram, sir?" said Peter. "Rather," replied Mr. Grant. "It puzzled me. I know no one of the name of Gregory." "You will soon, sir," was the rejoinder. "We've got him safely locked up in the fo'c'sle." Soon the little _Puffin_ was packed. Before attempting to open the fo'c'sle hatch the Customs Officers took possession of the letters and parcel received from the mysterious yacht. There, sure enough, was sufficient evidence--pure cocaine worth at least a couple of thousand pounds. Then the fore-hatch was uncovered. "Come on, Mr. Gregory," exclaimed one of the Customs officials coaxingly. "Let's have a look at you." Gregory came out as tamely as a lamb. He was wise enough to recognise the futility of resistance. In a trice he was handcuffed. A deft search revealed no signs of a firearm, nor did a subsequent examination of the fo'c'sle lead to the discovery of a pistol.