Alertly, Craddock watched the curving line of ripples astern as the _Kestrel_ came up into the line. There was no sign of Heavitree. The lad was an excellent swimmer, but there was the likelihood that he had hit the rail as he fell and had been rendered insensible. Full thirty long-drawn-out seconds passed, but still no sign of Heavitree. Peter looked at Brandon. The Patrol Leader shook his head. He was outwardly cool and collected; yet the disappearance of Heavitree without a trace filled him with apprehension. Even a stunned man under water would be expelling air from his lungs and the bubbles would show on the surface. The difficulty was that already the yacht had covered fifty or more yards since the time the accident had occurred, and in consequence it was futile to attempt to dive after the lad. And yet it was agonising having to stand and watch and yet do nothing. The _Kestrel_ was now hove-to on to the port tack, her head-sheets, which had not been eased, being taut to wind’ard. The folds of the spinnaker hung idly over the starboard side between the shrouds and the forestay. With one exception everyone was looking astern. The exception was Eric Little. Unnoticed by the others he crept cautiously for’ard and began to gather in the trailing canvas. Hanging on to the rail was the missing Heavitree, breathless but otherwise none the worse for his immersion. He had managed to grasp the coaming as he fell, although he was immersed up to his waist. The spinnaker, completely enveloping him, had effectually hidden him from view. Willing hands assisted Heavitree on deck. The Sea Scouts relieved their pent-up feelings with a rousing cheer, the noise of which brought Mr. Grant hurriedly on deck. “What’s the matter, lads?” he demanded anxiously, as he blinked in the strong sunlight. Coming straight from the darkened saloon he could see little or nothing. “Why are we hove-to?” “I fell into the ditch, sir,” replied Heavitree. “Or, nearly. How’s your hand, sir? Mind you don’t hit it against anything.” “Better go below, sir,” suggested Brandon. “We haven’t sighted Portland Bill yet. I’ll report to you when we do.” There was a decided streak of obstinacy in Mr. Grant’s nature and occasionally it asserted itself. It did now. He sat down, still blinking. By this time his eyes were becoming more accustomed to the sunlight. He noticed the untidily stowed spinnaker, then he spotted Eric Little. “Who’s that, Brandon?” he asked. “What is that lad doing here? How did he come aboard?” “Our prize stowaway,” replied the Patrol Leader. CHAPTER XIV The Peril of the Race