Brandon gave a start, but quickly recovering himself, threw open the panel. Lying full length on the assortment of canvas gear and blinking in the strong sunlight was a boy of about twelve or fourteen. “Come out!” ordered Brandon sternly. “Precisely what I’ve been wanting to do for the last five minutes,” replied the youth, with astonishing coolness. “Just wait until I have collected my scanty belongings and your request will be complied with.” “Well, I never——” ejaculated the Patrol Leader. “Don’t distress yourself,” continued the boy. “Wait until I am in a position to offer an explanation. My limbs, I find, are somewhat cramped.” With the utmost deliberation the stowaway emerged and stood upright in the cockpit with the Sea Scouts still too astonished to say much, hemming him in on three sides. He was a pale-faced, sharp-featured lad of medium height and sparely built. The most noticeable feature about him was a high and prominent forehead. He was dressed in a tightly fitting suit of grey tweed and an Eton collar, his thin, bony wrists projecting quite three inches beyond his coat sleeves. Under one arm he held a schoolboy’s satchel, from which protruded a glass-stoppered bottle. “You hid yourself on board?” began Brandon. “Your surmise is a perfectly correct one,” agreed this remarkable youth, with a grave smile. “In the circumstances I had no option. Had I asked to be allowed to accompany you, my request would have been refused. As it is, I’m here.” “A stowaway!” exclaimed the Patrol Leader. “You deserve a booting.” The boy made a deprecatory movement with his hand. “Believe me, it isn’t done,” he rejoined. “Personal violence to stowaways is, I take it, an obsolete practice that has shared the same fate as walking the plank and keel-hauling. At least, I hope I am not misinformed. . . . I say, what a jolly little pup!” “Never mind the pup,” protested Brandon. “Tell me what you are doing on board.” “Enjoying—or expecting to enjoy—a free journey to Chichester. The chances are I shall. You can’t very well go back to Dartmouth; you can’t put me overboard. So it seems as if I remain here a while, and I’ve brought my provisions!” “I’ll see what Mr. Grant has to say,” decided Brandon, who had never before come in contact with such a self-possessed and precocious youngster. “One minute,” interrupted Peter, drawing his chum aside. “Come for’ard.” Craddock and Brandon made their way to the fore-deck, where Carline was slumbering in ignorance of what had occurred. “Mr. Grant fainted just now,” reported Peter. “Heavitree’s with him. I fancy it’s his hand that made him go off. It’s a case of blood-poisoning, I’m afraid. I was boiling some water to make a poultice when this happened. I vote we say nothing to Mr. Grant until he’s had a good rest, but I leave it to you. You’re skipper.” “Right-o!” agreed Brandon. “Where is he? In his cabin?” “No, on one of the settees in the saloon.”