The _Pip-squeak_, Jefferson's boat, was about fifteen feet in length and provided with a standing lug-sail and centre-board. Formerly she belonged to an Auldhaig waterman, who on being mobilised for the R.N.R. sold her for 3 pounds. Her new owner, who contrived to escape the irregular meshes of the Recruiting Officer's net, had palmed the _Pip-squeak_ off on Jefferson for six times the amount he had paid, or, roughly, the same sum that the boat had cost to build twenty years ago. The _Pip-squeak_ was no chicken, nor did she lay claim to beauty. Bluff-bowed, and with an almost entire lack of sheer, she had one compensating quality: she was as stiff as a house. At the edge of the jetty gathered most of the crew--Cumberleigh, Jefferson, a "second loot" named Pyecroft, and von Preussen. "An' what are we waitin' for?" demanded Pyecroft, clapping his hands and stamping his feet. "When I go sailing I like to get on with it. What are we waitin' for?" "Bait," replied Jefferson laconically. "A _sine quâ non_ for a fishing expedition," added the major, who, though not one of the party, had strolled down to the jetty ostensibly to see the start but in reality to observe "Captain Fennelburt" more closely. The seeds of suspicion are apt to shoot rapidly. "Here's Blenkinson with the bait," announced Cumberleigh, as another khaki-clad individual, a first lieutenant, appeared carrying a rusty tin in one hand and a mud-covered spade in the other. "Here are your precious rag-worms, Jeff," he remarked bitterly. "Next time you get me on that job I'll borrow your rubber boots. The mud's stiff with broken glass, and I've cut mine through--look." To prove his words, Blenkinson adroitly balanced himself on one foot and kicked off a rubber boot. As the foot-gear fell upon the wooden staging of the jetty a quart of black sea-water poured out. Jefferson sniffed judiciously at the tin. "Fresh enough," he observed, "but, old son, pity you didn't devote your energies to the worms instead of wasting your time pulling bits of glass out of your boots. These won't last any time." "No more will my boots, you slave-driving blighter," rejoined the worm-digger. "I'll swear I shifted a ton of mud without finding a single worm." "Don't stop there arguing all the blessed afternoon!" exclaimed Cumberleigh. "If we can't fish we can sail. 'Once aboard the lugger,' my hearties." The party embarked awkwardly after the fashion of men wearing breeches, puttees or leggings, and heavy boots. With the exception of Jefferson and von Preussen, they were raw amateurs in the art of sailing save on board a coastal airship. On those occasions they shone. In the present instance they did not.