His next business was to make arrangements with the local representative of the Shipwrecked Mariners Aid Society, to have Dick Marner taken ashore and sent home by train. Finally, he bought another anchor to replace the one lying on the bed of Falmouth Harbour. He returned on board to find all the crew asleep with the exception of Carline, who had been told off to keep anchor watch. “You’d better turn in, too, Carline,” said Mr. Grant. “We aren’t getting under way to-day, and perhaps not to-morrow either. We want fair weather for the run past Portland Bill, and, judging by this morning’s sunrise, we aren’t going to get it just at present.” Going to his own cabin, Mr. Grant saw that Marner was awake. “Feelin’ fine, sir,” replied the man in answer to the Scoutmaster’s enquiry. “But I’m fair hungry. That beef tea was all very well, but it don’t fill a man’s innards, in a manner o’ speakin’, sir. Can’t I have somethin’ as ’as got summat to bite at?” “I think so, now,” said Mr. Grant, smiling at the Cornishman’s quaintly phrased request. “And a boat’s coming for you some time before noon. You’ll be given your fare to Falmouth, and with luck you’ll be home to-night. But you’ll have to be careful with that head of yours, and not shake yourself up too much on your motor bike.” A look of bewilderment spread over the bronzed features of Dick Marner, junior. “Moty bike, sir?” he rejoined. “Can’t say as I follers what you’m meaning.” It was Mr. Grant’s turn to look surprised. Could it be that Marner was suffering from partial loss of memory owing to the injury to his head? “Surely you remember your motor bicycle at your father’s place at Polkebo?” “Never ’ad a moty bicycle in my life, sir,” was the astounding reply. “Couldn’t ride un if I ’ad.” The Scoutmaster made no comment, but thought the more. Apparently the situation required careful handling, but before he could frame a suitable question, Dick Marner continued: “Now I comes to think on it, the moty cycle you seed was Blueskin Bone’s. ’E an’ fayther are neighbours like; an’ Blueskin ain’t got no shed in ’is garden, and ’aving trouble to get moty cycle up the girt steps to ’is door, ’e keeps un in fayther’s shed.” “So that’s it,” thought Mr. Grant. “I wish I’d known that when I interviewed Mr. Marner, senior, the sly old rascal! However, Blueskin’s a back number as far as we are concerned. That’s something to be thankful for.” CHAPTER X Blueskin’s Plot The presence of the Aberstour Sea Scouts’ yacht _Kestrel_ in Dartmouth Harbour attracted a fair amount of interest, but none more than that shown by a tall, heavily built, and loose-jowled deck-hand on board the S.S. _Lumberjack_. Leaning over the bulwark of the tramp and shading his face with his hands, the man gazed so intently at the newly arrived yacht that one of his shipmates was struck by his studied interest.