The _Kestrel_, glistening in her new coat of paint, looked very different from the half-completed craft the Sea Scouts had taken over only a short while ago. She was now a ketch-rigged yacht with a spacious cockpit and ample accommodation under her cabin-top. Her original sails had been altered to form a serviceable and yet moderate spread of canvas. The only thing wanting was a motor; but, as Craddock observed, “Drake hadn’t a motor when he sailed round the world; so we ought to manage to find our way up Channel without one.” “All the same I wish we had an engine,” said Carline. “The _Kestrel_ is a whopping lump of a craft to move in a dead calm.” “We may get a motor some day,” added Mr. Grant. “When we’ve been shipmates with one the lack of an engine seems a serious matter. We must cut our coat according to our cloth, you know. Now, lads, the tide’s making well. We’re nearly afloat, so get busy.” The _Kestrel_ was to be taken from Polkebo Creek that evening and sailed down to a berth off Greenbank at Falmouth, where the _Merlin_ was lying, in order that both craft might start together. Almost everyone in Polkebo turned out to see the _Kestrel_ start, for with one exception (and he, it was to be hoped, was far away) the inhabitants of the hamlet were on excellent terms with the Aberstour Sea Scouts. There was also much speculation on the part of the professional seafaring folk as to how the amateur-altered ex-Service launch, manned chiefly by lads in their teens, would be handled. Although there was a steady leading wind the houses and trees blanketed most of it; so without difficulty canvas was set, sheets overrun, and all preparation made before the rising tide floated the yacht off. “She’ll do it now, lads,” exclaimed Mr. Grant. “Head-sheet to wind’ard, then! Cast off for’ard!” The _Kestrel_ held only by the stern-warp, swung slowly on her heel. She was afloat all right. “Let go aft!” ordered the Scoutmaster. “Trim your fore and jib sheets.” Almost imperceptibly the _Kestrel_, steady as a rock, gathered way. The crowd ashore cheered. The Sea Scouts responded lustily. The gap between the yacht and the quay widened. The water began to ripple under the yacht’s forefoot. She heeled to the strengthening breeze. “Take her, Brandon,” said Mr. Grant, relinquishing the tiller. “She’ll do.” Against the still flowing tide the _Kestrel_ made steady progress. She was “as stiff as a house,” and showed a decided tendency to carry weather-helm—a qualification that all craft under sail must possess if they are to be accounted seaworthy. In less than half an hour the _Kestrel_ hove-to within fifty yards of the _Merlin_, on which Scoutmaster Pendennis and his crew of hefty Cornish Sea Scouts were awaiting their approach. “Sorry there are no moorings for you!” hailed Mr. Pendennis. “Let go your anchor. Tide’s slackening. She’ll ride head to wind all right.”