Late in the afternoon the long-looked-for Portland Bill was sighted—not on the port bow, but dead ahead. Apparently in the light air the _Kestrel_ had been carried by an indraught slightly to the nor’ard of her proper course. Progress had been slow, and in consequence she had lost her tide and was now making very little against the west-going stream. “It will mean another night at sea, lads,” remarked Mr. Grant, when the Patrol Leader had reported land in sight. “It will be quite five hours before we pick up a fair tide, and then, unless the wind holds, we’ll have to be jolly careful we aren’t swept into Portland Race.” “Let me know the course, sir, and I’ll see she keeps to it,” declared Brandon. “There’s no need for you to do anything. How’s your hand now, sir?” “Better,” replied the Scoutmaster, although he knew perfectly well that it was far from being right. “I’ll turn out at sunset.” “You oughtn’t to, really, sir,” protested Brandon. “Take it easy to-night. If anything unusual occurs we’ll give you a call.” Mr. Grant capitulated. He was still feeling “a bit shaky.” The finger, thanks to action of numerous poultices, had swollen still more, but there were no indications of the poison discharging itself. In these circumstances, an accidental knock or blow might easily undo all the good that had been done by fomentation. In addition, the Scoutmaster “had a temperature,” although he kept this knowledge to himself, hoping that in a few hours’ time it would return to normal. “What are we going to do with our stowaway, sir?” asked Brandon. “Send him home from the first place we touch at,” replied Mr. Grant. “It’s unfortunate we cannot signal. His grandparents must be very anxious about him; but we can send a wire from Swanage.” “He’s a queer sort of fellow, isn’t he?” remarked Brandon. “Yes, but it’s hardly his fault. It’s the way he’s been brought up,” replied the Scoutmaster. “He uses those somewhat high-brow expressions quite naturally, because he’s lived in an atmosphere in which they are spoken. After all, it’s the same with everyone. A stable boy unconsciously uses racing slang because he hears it all around him. A sailor’s expressions are often unintelligible to landsmen, although his messmates haven’t the slightest difficulty in understanding what he says. Often we were at a loss to know what the Cornish fisherfolk were saying. Eric Little’s case is much the same, only in a very much smaller environment. Well, right-o, Brandon. Carry on, if you will. See that all hands get a decent meal, then pick your watch and let the rest turn in.” Alive to his responsibilities, Brandon went on deck, ordered the spinnaker to be taken in, and set the _Kestrel_ on her new course. He, too, realised the dangers of being becalmed at night in the vicinity of that dangerous expanse of turbulent water known as Portland Race.