Mr. Grant was now confronted with a difficult problem: whether to carry on or to bear up and run for shelter into Plymouth Sound. On first thoughts he favoured the latter alternative. With an injured man on board, and having several hours before dawn to make for shelter, this seemed the obvious thing to do. Then he considered the difficulties. He had never been into Plymouth before. He was a stranger to the intricate currents inside the breakwater. The Sound and Hamoaze were generally crowded with shipping. The numerous navigation and riding-lamps were apt to be particularly perplexing to a stranger, and there was no small risk of disaster should an error of judgment occur. On the other hand, the _Kestrel_ was proving herself to be a capital sea-boat. Better then to hold on, keeping plenty of sea-room, and gain the sheltered waters of Start Bay at daybreak. Mr. Grant chose the latter alternative and stuck to it. Indecision he held to be worse than incompetence. A person in charge of a vessel and unable to make up his mind was a menace to his crew; an incompetent skipper, although a despicable character, could be superseded in a critical situation by a better man. Keeping Craddock and Heavitree on deck, the Scoutmaster took the helm and told the rest of the crew to turn in. The two hefty Sea Scouts were sufficient to assist him in the management of the yacht in a stiff blow at night. The others would only be in the way. In addition they would be as limp as rags in the morning. At 1 a.m. the Eddystone was abeam at a distance of about two miles. It was still too hazy to pick up the powerful Start light, and there was no object in “cracking on” and arriving off that dangerous headland before dawn. Accordingly a couple of reefs were taken in the mainsail, and the staysail was lowered and “bonneted” to the bowsprit. Even then the _Kestrel_ maintained a fair speed and rode the waves like a cork, with the dinghy’s bows high in the air as she strained at the end of a double length of stout 50-feet rope. “Isn’t this top-hole, sir?” exclaimed Peter enthusiastically. “I’d rather be in the _Kestrel_ than in that tramp which passed us some time ago.” Before the Scoutmaster could offer any remark Brandon came out of the cabin. “The man has come to,” he announced oracularly. “How does he feel? Did he say?” asked Mr. Grant. “Said he was thirsty, sir.” Telling Craddock to take the helm, Mr. Grant went below. He found the rescued man quite rational in spite of the serious injury to his head. Reiterating the fact that he was thirsty, he continued by asking where he was. The Scoutmaster explained. “You’re quite safe,” he continued. “But I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with the limited accommodation on board until we can put you ashore. I’ll give you something to drink; after that you must try all you can to get to sleep.”