“Lor’, Blueskin!” he exclaimed. “Wot’s strikin’ your fancy now? Ain’t you never seen a crowd o’ Sea Scoutses afore?” Carlo Bone spat contemptuously into the scuppers. “Axin’ for trouble, them is,” he remarked. “An’ so’ll you be if the Old Man sees you hangin’ on to the slack,” rejoined the other. “Bear a hand an’ help shift this ’ere dunnage.” The S.S. _Lumberjack_ was lying within a hundred yards of the mooring which the _Kestrel_ had picked up. She had arrived a few days before, having developed engine trouble in that antiquated box which required all the skill and patience of a dour Scots engineer to take the old tramp along at even a modest five knots. The sight of the _Kestrel_ acted like a red rag to a mad bull as far as Blueskin Bone was concerned. The mere knowledge that had it not been for “them Sea Scoutses” he might have become the owner of the craft never ceased to anger him. Even when, acting upon the idea that Polkebo was getting too hot for him, he had shipped aboard the S.S. _Lumberjack_ his resentment did not die down; it merely smouldered, to be revived to white heat when, quite unexpectedly, the _Kestrel_ came in with the flood tide from the boisterous waters of the English Channel. “If she ain’t mine,” he muttered, “she won’t be nobody’s—not if I can ’elp it. Too mighty cute those chaps wur last time—when they thought as I wur about. If they don’t see I, maybe they won’t be so plaguey wideawake.” For the rest of his watch Blueskin spent most of the time taking furtive glances at the _Kestrel_ and cudgelling his brains to devise some cunning plan to gain his ends. In order to conceal himself from observation from the _Kestrel_, he even declined to go ashore that evening, much to his shipmates’ surprise. Long after the hands had turned in that night Blueskin lay awake. When at length silence reigned in the stuffy fo’c’sle of the S.S. _Lumberjack_, Carlo Bone slipped out of his bunk, barefooted and wearing only a pair of canvas trousers. It was a pitch dark night. Heavy clouds overspread the sky. A hard blow was raging out in the Channel, and even the land-locked waters of Dartmouth Harbour were foam-flecked. The flood tide was on the point of turning. In fact, all the shipping at anchor on the Kingswear side were riding head to wind. Eighty yards or so away, the riding-light of the _Kestrel_ see-sawed as the yacht rolled and strained at her borrowed moorings. Groping about in the darkness, Blueskin soon found what he wanted: an iron bucket to which he had previously attached a short length of flexible steel wire. The bucket he lowered over the ship’s side by means of a piece of spun yarn until it hung just above the surface. Giving a final look round to reassure himself that no one was on deck, Blueskin lowered himself into the water. Then, casting off the lashing that held the bucket, he struck out for the _Kestrel_, pushing the bucket in front of him.