The anchor was dropped, sails stowed, riding light trimmed ready to be hoisted at sunset. For the rest of the evening the crews “palled up,” some of the _Kestrel’s_ going aboard the _Merlin_, while a part of the latter’s complement came over to the _Kestrel_. At sunset the Sea Scouts returned to their respective craft, had supper, and turned in. Giving a final look round and satisfying himself that the riding-light was burning clearly, Mr. Grant followed the example of his crew. “No need to turn out before seven,” he announced. “Get in a good night’s rest while you’ve the chance. You never know when you’ll get another when we’re under way.” Peter Craddock was the first to awake. A pale grey light was filtering through the skylight. The _Kestrel_ was rolling slightly, and the dinghy had just commenced to bump alongside. “Turn of the tide, I expect,” thought the lad drowsily. “It can’t be much more than five o’clock. Too soon to turn out.” Casually he glanced at his watch; looked again and then held it to his ear. It was ticking merrily. The hands pointed to twenty minutes past seven. By that time it ought to be broad daylight. It wasn’t. Somewhat mystified, Peter rolled out of his bunk and went on deck. To his surprise a thick fog enveloped everything. From the companion ladder it was only just possible to discern the lower part of the mizzen-mast looking grotesquely distorted in the watery haze. An uncanny silence prevailed. No sounds came from the near-by town. Then the distant wail of a syren came through the mist. According to the state of the tide, the _Kestrel_ should be riding to the last of the ebb. How came it then that the dinghy, instead of straining at her painter, was rubbing alongside the yacht’s quarter? “Something wrong,” muttered Peter, and making his way for’ard along the damp and clammy waterway, he gained the bows. Then he felt the cable. The chain came up easily, and no wonder; for instead of there being ten fathoms of it, terminating in a seventy-pound anchor, only a dozen links or so were trailing uselessly through the hawse-pipe. The _Kestrel_ was adrift in a thick sea fog, and at the mercy of the swirling tide. CHAPTER VI In the Fog “Turn out, you fellows!” shouted Craddock. “All hands on deck! We’ve parted our cable, and there’s a heavy fog on.” The rest of the crew tumbled out of their bunks and hammocks and hurried into their clothes. They accepted Peter’s statement without any hesitation, for it was one of the few hard-and-fast rules on board that on no account was a false alarm to be knowingly raised. Skylarking in its proper place was encouraged and harmless practical joking permitted; but each Sea Scout had been impressed with the seriousness of the harm that might occur by raising the nautical equivalent to the shout of “’Ware Wolf!” when there was not one.