“Where are we?” asked Craddock, as he gained the cockpit. Brandon told him, adding the information that the flood tide had now set in. “Haven’t touched the tiller for the last four hours,” he remarked. “We’re just drifting. This is where a motor would come in handy. Well, thank goodness, this isn’t the Doldrums, and we ought to get a breeze soon.” At length came that “darkest hour before the dawn,” when human vitality is supposed to be at its lowest ebb. Through the stillness of the night came a low rumble. “What’s that?” asked Peter. “Thunder?” “Don’t think so,” replied his chum. “It’s too prolonged.” They listened. The sound continued and seemed to increase in volume until it reached a distinct rumbling roar. “It must be the Race,” declared Brandon. “Of course it’s still a long way off, but we’re being carried into it.” “What’s to be done?” asked Peter. “Anchor?” “No use attempting to anchor in over twenty fathoms,” replied the Patrol Leader. “Let’s get the sweeps to work. It will be something to do, and we may get her well clear with an hour’s steady work. Gently with them; don’t disturb the other fellows.” Carefully the long ash sweeps were placed in the rowlocks, and by means of steady strokes the _Kestrel_ was brought round until the yacht’s bows pointed sou’-sou’-east. The dinghy’s painter no longer trailed in the water as the little boat followed sedately in the wake of her parent. Again the beams of the high light of Portland pierced the darkness, this time broad on the port beam. The roar of the Race steadily increased. “Don’t think we’ll clear it,” muttered Brandon breathlessly, for sweeping the yacht was heavy and tiring work. “I wish it were day,” rejoined Peter. “Then we could see where we are. How far are we from the Race, do you think?” “Quite near enough,” admitted the Patrol Leader. “You’d better inform Mr. Grant and turn out a couple of hands to man the dinghy. We might be able to tow the yacht as well as sweep her.” Craddock found the Scoutmaster awake. In fact, Mr. Grant had hardly slept at all. Apart from the still painful state of his arm his anxiety as to what might happen on the turn of the tide had kept him awake. He realised the danger. All along that dangerous coast there is no harbour for which a vessel can make for shelter except at or about the time of high water. True, there is a smooth passage between the Race and the Bill, but even then a stranger is apt to get into difficulties and be swept into the dangerous overfalls unless he times the attempt at a favourable state of the tide. Mr. Grant came on deck. “You’ve done all you can, Brandon,” he remarked. “We may be able to tow her clear. Get the other fellows out and see that the forehatch and skylights are well secured. We’ll be having plenty of green water over our decks before very long, I fancy.”