Just then Mr. Grant came on deck. He had been writing in the cabin, and on hearing the noise of the motor had glanced through the scuttle. He, too, had not failed to notice the supercilious grin on the fellow’s flabby features. “That man’s looking for trouble,” he observed. “There ought to be a ‘Society for the Protection of Guests of Half-Baked Amateur Marine Motorists.’ Up helm a little Peter; keep in his wake. Unless I’m much mistaken, that freak craft will be in difficulties before very long.” The _Kestrel_ was now about four hundred yards to the sou’west of Old Harry, that well-known chalk pinnacle forming the eastern extremity of the Isle of Purbeck. The motor boat was by this time a couple of hundred yards ahead and making straight for a well-defined tide-rip caused by the tidal current flowing over a ledge of submerged rock running out from Standfast Point. The greenhorn at the helm of the motor boat failed to notice the popple of disturbed water. His attention seemed to be centred upon the _Kestrel_, as if he were still gloating over his superior speed. Soon the boat began to pound heavily. Her narrow stern dipped. Spray flew over the engine, putting it out of action. The metal rudder was totally inadequate to keep the flat-bottomed craft on its course. A puff of wind filled the sail, causing the boat to pay off and heel. Too late the brass-buttoned novice realised the danger. When he did, he could do nothing beyond attempting to restart the engine. His weight as he leant over the narrow stern made matters worse. A sea poured completely over the weather quarter. The boat still lived although half full of water. Panic seized the man. He had lost his yachting cap—it was floating on the water that swirled over the bottom-boards—and abject fear was plainly written on his face, while his long hair streamed in the breeze. The while the sail was taking the full force of the wind, for no attempt had been made to free the sheet. Suddenly, as the boat shipped more water, the mast became unshipped and disappeared over the side, taking the sail with it. The boat, no longer making way, fell into the trough of the sea and took in water on both sides. “Cut away your gear and ride to it!” shouted Brandon, for the _Kestrel_ was now within hailing distance. The advice, intelligible to anyone acquainted with even an elementary knowledge of seamanship, was lost as far as the bewildered and panic-stricken owner of the motor boat was concerned. He could only wave his arms wildly and shout for help. The women, although obviously badly scared, at least had the sense to keep still. The Scoutmaster glanced at Brandon and nodded. The Patrol Leader understood. It was a silent intimation that he was to exercise his discretion in the operation of bringing the _Kestrel_ alongside the fast-foundering boat. “Stand by to go about!” ordered Brandon.