The _Merlin_ was no longer in sight. In vain Brandon, with a pair of binoculars, swung round his neck, went aloft, where, perched on the cross-trees, he brought his glasses to bear upon a limited expanse of horizon that showed between the straining canvas. He could see the brown sails of half a dozen fishing boats and the smoke of a steamer, but of the Cornish Sea Scouts’ craft not a sign. “They’ve too good a pair of heels for us,” he remarked, when he regained the deck. “What’s that?” asked Heavitree, pointing slightly on the starboard bow. “There’s something white. Isn’t that the _Merlin’s_ sails?” “I believe you’re right,” said Carline. “Only she’s a long way out. Let me have the glasses, Brandon.” The Patrol Leader handed over the binoculars. Carline levelled them at the supposed cloud of canvas. “Why, it’s a white cliff rising out of the sea,” he exclaimed. “Yes, the Isle of Wight,” explained Brandon. “It puzzled me at first. From the cross-trees I could make out the Needles. If——” A dull thud that shook the yacht from truck to keel interrupted the Patrol Leader’s words. For a brief instant the _Kestrel_ seemed to stop dead. It might have been only an illusion, but everyone on deck thought so. “We’re aground!” exclaimed Talbot. Brandon glanced over the side. The yacht was still carrying way and lifting easily to the waves. “There’s plenty of water everywhere,” he replied. “We must have struck something, though.” The jar brought Mr. Grant on deck to see what was amiss. “We struck something pretty heavy,” he remarked. “Nip below, Peter, and look under the floorboards in the fo’c’sle. She may have strained a plank.” Craddock did so. He had not been gone more than a few seconds when the reason of the alarm became evident. About a hundred yards on the starboard quarter an enormous porpoise broke surface, followed by another. Both animals were badly scared, for they promptly dived and were not seen again. Presently Peter returned with the information that the yacht was as tight as a bottle. Thanks to her heavy build she had escaped damage, although a vessel with slighter scantlings might easily have had her bow planking stove in. At length Hengistbury Head was brought abeam, and for ten minutes the _Kestrel_ had a pretty stiff hammering over Christchurch Ledge. By this time the Needles and the multi-coloured cliffs of Alum Bay were clearly discernible, while right ahead rose the slender tower of Hurst Castle lighthouse. “Look!” exclaimed Talbot. “Isn’t that the _Merlin_?” He pointed to a yacht about three miles dead ahead. Brandon brought the binoculars into action. “Yes, you’re right, Talbot,” he replied. “It is the _Merlin_. She’s becalmed.” “Then, we may overhaul her yet,” said Wilson. “She’ll use her motor,” declared Craddock.