Edging cautiously, the _Merlin_ approached the crucial spot. She appeared to stop dead. The strain on the towing hawser eased. The _Kestrel_ continued to decrease her distance, making straight for the dangerous ledge. To Brandon at the helm it seemed as if a titanic hand was gripping the keel and shaking the whole boat. He could do nothing. The rudder seemed useless, and yet the yacht was heading for destruction. Suddenly the _Merlin_ forged ahead. She had crawled past the dangerous point and was now aided by a favourable eddy. With a staggering jerk the hawser took up the strain. The _Kestrel_ leapt ahead, her keel missing the steeply shelving ledge by inches. In another five minutes both craft were stemming the relatively weak tide off the mud-flats of the Hampshire shore. “Near thing that,” remarked Heavitree. “I thought we should have had to have jumped for it that time.” “If we had, we should have stood as much chance as a mouse in a pail of water,” rejoined Brandon, glancing at the maelstrom astern. “Next time I think I’d rather wait till the tide turns.” CHAPTER XVIII The Admiral “What’s that fellow staring at us for?” asked Talbot. “Oh, I don’t know,” replied Symington carelessly, as he stooped to put a final polish on his shore-going boots. “It’s the thing to do afloat. Everyone does, and it’s taken as a sort of compliment to the craft you happen to be aboard.” “But, just you look at him,” persisted Talbot. It was the morning following the arrival of the _Kestrel_ and the _Merlin_ in Lymington River. Both craft were brought up on Long Reach and just above the second beacon. As the east-going tide would not run before the afternoon, and as it was almost a hopeless proposition to attempt to stem the adverse tide, the crews of both boats had arranged to go ashore in the forenoon, and were consequently “smartening themselves up” for the occasion. Symington gave a casual glance. Then he looked a second time. Evidently Talbot’s wonder was justifiable, for breasting the ebb-tide was an open, centre-board sailing boat in the stern-sheets of which sat the only occupant. He was a bronzed-complexioned man of about forty, with iron-grey hair and a white “torpedo” beard. His beetling brows were conspicuous by their long, white hairs, overhanging dark and deep-set eyes. He wore a blue reefer suit and a peaked cap cocked at a rakish angle over one eye. As Talbot had remarked, he was staring—although it looked more like a glare—straight at the _Kestrel_. The _Kestrel_ had anchored about fifty yards lower down the stream than the _Merlin_, and was in consequence nearer to the approaching boat. Even as Symington looked the bearded man put his helm down with the evident intention of coming alongside. “Someone to see you, sir!” he announced, addressing Mr. Grant, who had just finished shaving.