“It du seem queer loike tu wake up an’ find myself here,” said the man, as he watched the preparation of the beverage. “Last I remember wur I wur sittin’ in——” “Don’t worry about that now,” interrupted Mr. Grant. “After you’ve slept a few hours it will be interesting to hear your story. What’s your name, by the by?” “Marner—Dick Marner,” was the not altogether unexpected reply. CHAPTER IX What Marner Revealed “Light on our port bow, sir!” reported Craddock. “How far off?” asked Mr. Grant, through the open skylight. “Miles, sir,” replied Peter. “Another lighthouse, I fancy.” “Good! I’ll be on deck in a minute,” rejoined the Scoutmaster. Having reassured himself that Marner was comfortable and almost on the point of falling asleep, Mr. Grant left the cabin and entered the saloon. Here he paused and held his hand close to the swinging lamp. “H’m!” he remarked in an undertone, as he examined the somewhat jagged cut. “It’s a case of the cobbler being the worst shod, I suppose. I’m always impressing upon the boys the absolute necessity of guarding against blood-poisoning, and in my case it’s precept without practice. Better late than never: I’ll smother the gash with iodine.” He opened the medicine-chest, found and uncorked the iodine bottle. “Finger’s throbbing already, I fancy,” he continued. “How’s your hand, sir?” asked Brandon. “Let me bind it up for you.” “Thought you were sound asleep, Frank,” remarked the Scoutmaster. “Thanks awfully, if you will.” The Patrol Leader slipped out of his bunk and, taking the bottle, poured a few drops into the jagged wound. The sting of the iodine made Mr. Grant wince. “That ought to do the trick, sir,” continued Brandon. “I’ll put a bandage round your hand. I wouldn’t use it if I were you; but there, you know all about that sort of thing, sir.” “I’m supposed to,” admitted the Scoutmaster. “Unfortunately, when it comes to a personal matter one is apt to let such things slide. That’s quite comfortable. Now I’ll see what the watch on deck are doing.” “Do you want me, sir?” asked Brandon. “I’ll turn out, if you like. I’d be only too pleased to.” “No need,” replied Mr. Grant. “Sleep while you can. I may want you when we enter harbour, but that may be hours yet.” Going on deck, Mr. Grant found that the light Peter had reported was two points on the port bow. By the nature of the flashes—one every second—he recognised it as The Start. “We’re timing things very nicely,” he observed. “By the time that light’s abeam, it will be dawn. Then we’ll have to close haul in the first tack and get under the lee of the line. We’ll make for Dartmouth and land our passenger. He’s just told me his name is Marner, son of old Dick Marner.” “The pal of Blueskin Bone, sir?” “Hope not,” replied Mr. Grant, laughing. “The old man denied the acquaintanceship. However, that’s done with; Blueskin fades out of the picture like a bad dream.”