Almost before the fact could be realised dawn broke. A rosy flush spread over the north-eastern sky, revealing a turmoil of angry, grey-crested waves, for the _Kestrel_ was only a mile or so to the south’ard of The Start, and was feeling the effect of the weather-going tide surging over the ledge of submerged rocks, extending from that bold and dangerous headland. The yacht was rolling heavily as she ran, but her seaworthiness was now fully established. She was making better weather of it than a vessel of three or four times her tonnage. “Nor’east a quarter north, now,” ordered the Scoutmaster. “A pull on the mainsheet, Heavitree. I’ll see to the head-sheets.” Craddock put the helm down. Round came the _Kestrel_ until the youthful helmsman “met her” on the required course. She was now almost, but not quite, close-hauled. The rolling motion gave place to a fairly steady heel. Showers of spray flew inboard over her weather bow, while her lee-bow wave creamed and frothed in a way that gave a fairly true indication of the speed she was making. After running for hours the sense of being close-hauled was unmistakably thrilling. “Isn’t she hopping it, eh?” exclaimed Heavitree, as he coiled down the flake of the mainsheet. “Hello, sir! Look what you’ve done.” The Scoutmaster followed the direction of the Sea Scout’s glance. The bandage on his hand was dyed red. “Must have opened the cut when I handled the jib-sheet,” he thought. “Well, it’s a good thing it was covered up; no dirt can get to it.” “It’s nothing much,” he remarked casually. “Now, you fellows, let’s see who has the keenest eyesight. There should be a conical buoy on our port bow about a couple of miles off.” “I see it, sir!” exclaimed Heavitree almost at once. “It’s dead on with our bowsprit-end.” “Is it, by Jove!” ejaculated Mr. Grant. “Up helm, Peter! At that! We’re closer in than I thought. We might have piled the _Kestrel_ on The Skerries. See those houses just under The Start? That’s Beesands, or what’s left of it. Most of the village was washed away in a gale. The fishermen there train dogs to swim out to the returning boats and swim back with a line. It takes some doing in a rough sea. We’re in smoother water now. Do you see that high point of land ahead, Peter? Steer for that; never mind the compass.” Pointing out various places of interest ashore, Mr. Grant chatted briskly in order to arouse the obviously flagging spirits of the two lads. They had stuck it well during the night watches, and now they kicked against the suggestion that they should go below to be relieved by Brandon and Talbot. “Why not bother about the compass, sir?” asked Peter.