Within the saloon the light was so dim that the lamp had to be lighted before it was possible to read the minute figures on the chart. Very soon the Scoutmaster’s worst fears were confirmed. Nowhere within Falmouth Harbour is a depth of twenty-nine fathoms to be obtained, even at the top of high-water springs. Obviously, then, the _Kestrel_ had drifted with the tide right out of the harbour without colliding with any other craft and fortunately clearing the dangerous Black Rock that lies in the mouth of the harbour and approximately midway between the projecting arms of Pendennis and St. Anthony. According to the soundings, the _Kestrel_ was somewhere on a line extending from the dreaded Manacles to the Dodman, and might be anywhere between those points, a distance of approximately fifteen sea-miles. It was not an envious position for the _Kestrel_ to be in. There was no wind, but a very heavy fog. She might or might not be in the way of vessels making for or leaving Falmouth Harbour. If she drifted northwards she would sooner or later pile herself up upon the iron-bound coast. The same condition would apply if she drifted west’ard. Provided a breeze sprung up, the best course was to make for the open Channel, but even then there was a risk of being run down in the busy steamer track that passed a few miles to the south’ard of the Lizard. To attempt to grope their way back to Falmouth, starting from an absolutely unknown position, was out of the question. Effectually concealing his anxiety, Mr. Grant returned on deck. By this time the Sea Scouts, under Patrol Leader Brandon’s direction, had set all plain sail. Fortunately Frank had remembered the invisible riding-light on the forestay. In the flat calm, although there was a light swell on, the canvas hung idly. From the cockpit only a part of the mainsail as far as the upper line of reef-points and a small portion of the mizzen were visible. The rest was swallowed up in the fog. “This is the worst fog we’ve struck,” remarked Craddock, as he coiled up the lead-line for another cast. “It is,” agreed the Scoutmaster. “Luckily we’ve plenty of sea-room.” “Plenty of sea-room, sir?” echoed Peter. “Where are we?” “That, exactly, I don’t know,” confessed Mr. Grant frankly. “What I do know is that we’ve drifted right out of Falmouth Harbour and are in the English Channel. As a rule fogs don’t last very long at this time of year. When the sun is well up there’ll be a breeze and the mist will disperse. Meanwhile we must take things as we find them and be thankful they are no worse.” “I wonder what the _Merlin_ is doing,” remarked Brandon. “Still on her moorings, I expect,” hazarded Heavitree. “They’ll think we’ve given them the slip.” “If the fog’s anything like it is here they won’t know we’ve gone,” rejoined the Patrol Leader. “Unless they hail us,” he added as an afterthought. “Wonder why the cable parted? We tested it carefully when we stowed it aboard the first time.”