Heavitree was unable to carry out these instructions. All his efforts were concentrated upon an attempt to retain a hold on the boat and to prevent it sinking still further as the women strove to raise themselves out of the water. Just then the partly submerged boat surged against the _Kestrel’s_ side. The craven owner’s generous proportions acted as an animated fender, but the shock well-nigh winded him and caused him to relax his grip. In a trice Talbot grasped him by his long hair and dragged him aft, where Craddock assisted in hauling the man on deck. Meanwhile Brandon and Symington set to work like Trojans to tranship the badly scared women and children. They were not a moment too soon. The _Kestrel_ was forging ahead. “I can’t hold her much longer, sir!” exclaimed Heavitree. “Let her go,” replied Mr. Grant briefly. Heavitree disengaged the boat-hook. The swamped motor boat drifted astern. Bubbles of air were escaping from the uptilted fore-deck. “Shall we have a shot at salving her?” asked Brandon. The Scoutmaster shook his head. “Let her go,” he replied. “She won’t have another chance to drown anyone. . . . There she goes! Bon voyage!” The freak craft disappeared from view. Mr. Grant glanced dispassionately at the late owner, who was still in an abject state. “The yellow streak has shown itself, I notice,” remarked the Scoutmaster. “Well, it’s no use asking _him_ questions. We’ll have to land the crew somewhere. I wonder where they came from?” “Where shall we make for, sir?” asked Brandon. “Studland,” replied Mr. Grant. “It’s just round the corner. Give that point a wide berth.” With a fair tide and beam wind, the _Kestrel_ opened into the wide expanse of Studland Bay. It would have meant a tedious beat shorewards owing to the cliffs blanketing the wind, but fortunately a motor passenger-boat happened to be leaving the shore, and in response to a semaphored message she ran alongside the yacht. Five minutes later the still considerably scared survivors of the sunken boat were transhipped to the passenger craft, and the _Kestrel_, running before the wind, resumed her attempt to overhaul the far-distant _Merlin_. By this time Mr. Grant had recovered his customary even temper. “After all, perhaps the silly ass couldn’t help being in a fearful funk,” he remarked. “When all’s said and done, bravery largely consists of being afraid of being afraid. . . . What’s that, Wilson? They’ve made the saloon slopping wet? Well, mop it up. That’ll be another Good Turn to your credit.” CHAPTER XVII Becalmed With all sail set, even the topsail and spinnaker, the _Kestrel_ tore through the water, shaping a course to pass one mile to the south’ard of Hengistbury Head, a bold promontory situated roughly midway between Old Harry and the Needles.