Night came on. The yacht, moving slowly through the calm water, was steadily losing ground. Although she was pointing seawards, the strong tide was sweeping her back. The Bill appeared to be receding, but there was no likelihood of losing sight of the powerful high light on that famous promontory. With the turn of the tide the leeway would be quickly made up, but there was the risk of the _Kestrel_ being carried through the Race before she could gain a sufficient offing to pass it to the south’ard. At ten o’clock Mr. Grant came on deck to look round. It was a perfectly calm night and the shoreward lights showed up distinctly. “We’re still rather close in,” he remarked. “Those are the lights of Lyme Regis, and more to the east’ard are those of Bridport. I wish we had had time to visit Bridport. It’s a picturesque little place. There used to be a quaint expression: ‘Struck with a Bridport dagger.’ Does anyone know what that means?” There was silence for a few moments; but before Mr. Grant could explain, Eric Little replied: “I believe I know: it is a colloquial expression signifying that a person has been hanged.” “Quite right!” exclaimed Mr. Grant approvingly. “Bridport was noted for rope-making, and also for sailcloth. Now I’ll tell you something more, and I wonder if you can explain the reason for it. Years ago when the rope and sailcloth industry was at its height most of the flax was brought to Bridport in Russian vessels. They used to send the stuff up to the town in boats. On Saturday nights the Russians made a point of going into the town, which is some distance from the harbour. The road between the two places was lighted with oil lamps. Every time the Russians returned to their ships these lamps were afterwards found to be extinguished. Why?” Several suggestions were forthcoming, but at each of them Mr. Grant shook his head. “The Russian sailors drank the oil,” he explained. “In those days the lamps were filled with whale-oil, and that was evidently a liquid appreciated by the Muscovites. . . . Now, Brandon, send the watch below down. I’ll turn in, since the skipper insists; but call me at once, if necessary. Good night!” Retaining Heavitree as a deck-hand, Brandon prepared for his long vigil. The wind showed no indication of appearing. The sea was as smooth as glass, save for the occasional ripples caused by a fish “breaking surface.” For the next two hours the _Kestrel_ was left to her own devices, drifting idly, with the dinghy frequently ranging up alongside as she swung through all the points of the compass. At midnight a faint haze obscured the bright light of Portland, which was now about twelve miles away. Before the light disappeared, Brandon took a compass-bearing and noted it in the log. Then he resumed his tedious watch. “Four bells!” he announced at length, stirring the torpid Heavitree with his foot. “You turn in, now, old son, and tell Peter to come on watch.”