In various stages of “undress uniform,” Scoutmaster and Sea Scouts gained the deck. The lads remained silent, waiting for Mr. Grant’s orders. He was frankly puzzled. The _Kestrel_ had been anchored surrounded by yachts and boats in the crowded anchorage of Greenbank. It seemed incredible that she should have drifted any distance without fouling some of the craft in the tideway. Craddock had reported that the cable had parted. Mr. Grant hoped that such was not the case. He had known of anchors being dropped with one of the flukes caught in the bobstay and with only the bight of the chain resting on the bottom. He rather wished such was the case now. “Get the fog-horn, Wilson,” he ordered. “Two blasts about every minute, please. And, Craddock, you might heave the lead. The others prepare to make sail.” Groping his way for’ard, for the fog was so thick that even the still burning riding-lamp ten feet above the deck was invisible, Mr. Grant grasped the cable and hauled in the slack. One look was sufficient. The last of the remaining links had been deliberately cut through with a hack-saw. The rest of the chain, together with the anchor, was lying on the bed of Falmouth Harbour—miles away, probably. It was no time for feelings of resentment and anger. The Scoutmaster came aft. “What water have we?” he asked. “No bottom, sir,” reported Peter. Mr. Grant gave an involuntary gasp of astonishment. The lead-line, 25 fathoms, or 150 feet, in length, was insufficient to touch the bed of the sea. “Bend another line to it,” he continued. “I’m doing it already, sir,” announced Craddock. “Good! . . . Now, how much?” “Another four fathoms, sir,” reported the leadsman. The Scoutmaster was on the point of going below, when Wilson stopped him. “Why are we to give two blasts, sir?” he enquired. “Oughtn’t we to sound a bell or something like that? We’re supposed to be at anchor.” Even in his worried state of mind, Mr. Grant did not hesitate to reply. “It puzzled me what signal to make at first,” he answered. “Although we were anchored—that is to say, I thought we were—the _Kestrel_ had obviously moved. In that case we are under way, and although we haven’t yet made sail, what wind there is is on our port beam. Consequently it is assumed that we are on the port tack; therefore, two blasts.” “Where are we, sir?” asked Carline. “That’s what I want to find out,” replied Mr. Grant. “I’m going below to look at the chart.”