He had had a restless night. Almost hourly he had crept softly from his bunk lest he should disturb the rest of the crew, and had held the injured hand in very warm water. But all to no seeming purpose. The middle finger was swelling badly, and, what was ominous, sharp, stabbing pains were running up his arm. Curiously, the cut at the base of the fingers appeared to be healing, while the swelling was most pronounced on the knuckle of the same digit. As he kept his hand in the hot water, Mr. Grant’s thoughts turned to the incident of the bucket. It seemed strange indeed that already the maiden cruise of the _Kestrel_ should be marked by three distinct—or apparently distinct—attempts to bring her to disaster. But were they distinct? Could it be that Blueskin Bone was the instigator of all three? Dick Marner’s innocent admission that his father and Carlo Bone were more than neighbours, coupled with the discovery that Marner senior’s story of the motor bicycle was a deliberate falsehood, tended to shake Mr. Grant’s previous belief in Blueskin’s innocence in the attempt at arson. Carlo Bone had gone to sea. Was it beyond the bounds of coincidence that he was one of the crew of the S.S. _Lumberjack_? He went on thinking and thinking. Presently, in a hazy sort of way, he became aware that his thoughts were ridiculously disjointed and absurd. The pain in his arm seemed to be subsiding, but in its stead he felt uncomfortably hot. His head was buzzing. Grey lights danced in front of his eyes. Then Mr. Grant did something he had never done before in his life. He fainted. A few minutes later Peter Craddock, who was making his way to the fo’c’sle, found his Scoutmaster lying inertly across the raised coaming of his cabin doorway. Checking his first impulse to alarm the rest of the crew, Peter lifted the unconscious form and carried it into the saloon. Here, with very little effort, the Sea Scout lifted Mr. Grant on the lee’ard settee; then, going to the companion way, asked Heavitree in a matter-of-fact voice to step below. “Don’t say anything to the other chaps,” cautioned Peter, when his chum came below. “Mr. Grant’s fainted. I found him lying in the doorway. Get some sal volatile and a basin of cold water while I loosen his collar.” “What made him faint?” asked Heavitree, as he carried out Craddock’s instructions. “Don’t know,” replied Peter. “It’s not concussion.” “His finger, perhaps?” “Rot!” ejaculated the lad contemptuously. Then he caught sight of the badly swollen hand. “By Jove! Believe you’re right, old son. I knew he had a nasty gash, but I never knew it was as bad as this. Skylight’s open: you might open all the scuttles. The more fresh air the better.” Presently Mr. Grant opened his eyes and looked dazedly at his youthful attendants. “Where am I?” he asked. “You’re all right, sir,” replied Peter reassuringly. “Heavitree and I are looking after you. Lie still a little longer.”