In a trice, Brandon realised the danger, made up his mind, and acted. At the imminent risk of being either jerked or washed overboard he fought his way for’ard, hanging on desperately as he battled towards his goal. One moment thigh deep in water; at another sprawling on the ridge formed by the steeply heeling cabin-top, he progressed foot by foot. With bleeding knees and broken finger-nails, well-nigh breathless with his struggle, the Patrol Leader contrived to throw himself flat upon the heaving fore-deck. Then, hanging on with his left hand, he succeeded in casting off the rope that held the _Kestrel_ to the _Merlin_. Then, obtaining a grip with both hands, Brandon waited to witness the fruits of his hazardous task. At first it seemed as if the act were in vain. The two craft showed no tendency to drift apart; on the contrary, it looked as if they would close. Had they done so, the fate of each would have been sealed, for the strongest yacht ever built would not be proof against the terrific hammering of the two hulls in that tumultuous sea. After a few minutes of anxious suspense, the distance between the two vessels began to increase. The _Merlin_ swung round until her bows pointed in the opposite direction to her previous course. As she rolled, the crew of the _Kestrel_ could see the Cornish Sea Scouts struggling desperately in a futile attempt to restart the motor. For another five minutes the ordeal continued; then, almost as suddenly as she had entered the Race, the _Kestrel_ found herself in comparatively calm water, with the final unwelcome gift of about fifty gallons of the English Channel being thrown in her cockpit. The _Merlin_ was not long in following her consort’s example, and, with the roar of the turbulent overfalls still dinning in their ears, the crews of both yachts set about repairing the damage done during their exciting quarter of an hour. Owing to the fact that they had missed the most dangerous part of Portland Race both craft had come off comparatively lightly. Twenty minutes’ hard work at the pump freed the _Kestrel_ of the water that had found its way on board. Her mizzen-boom had been sprung close to the gooseneck; one of the panes of the skylight had been broken; while—worst of all—her dinghy’s top-strake had been badly smashed owing to the boat being thrown violently against the _Kestrel’s_ quarter. Three of the Sea Scouts had received minor injuries owing to the severe and erratic motion of the yacht; Eric Little was “down and out” with sea-sickness; while Molly, the pup, who had been locked in the saloon, was nearly frantic with joy when Peter went below to see how she had fared. “What’s wrong with your engine?” enquired Mr. Grant, hailing the _Merlin_. “Water on plug and in the carburetter,” replied Scoutmaster Pendennis. “We’ll get her going soon, I hope. I’ve heard a lot about Portland Race, but I never expected it to be like that on a calm day. Hello! what’s the matter with your hand?”