“How about Molly?” asked Brandon. “Shall we take her?” The pup showed such a disinclination to go in the boat that she was left behind. Usually she was quite excited at the sight of the dinghy being manned, and was one of the first to scramble over the gunwale. But that was only when Craddock was to form one of the party. She was fond of everyone on board, even Eric Little; but she was devoted to Peter. Where he went she would go, but if he remained on board it required forcible abduction to get the pup into the boat. Left to themselves, Craddock and Heavitree had quite an enjoyable afternoon. They fished, exchanged semaphore and Morse messages with the _Merlin’s_ ship-keepers, wrote letters, and watched passing shipping. Six o’clock came, but there were no signs of the two dinghies. The Sea Scouts had tea, washed up and stowed away the things, and came on deck again. Still the absent members of the two crews failed to put in an appearance. “What’s happened to the others?” asked Peter, hailing the _Merlin_. “Perhaps they can’t find a garage or a place where they sell petrol,” replied one of the Falmouth lads. “I’ve been aloft to look, but there’s only a small part of the harbour to be seen. It runs away behind that hill to the right of the entrance.” “More likely they are high and dry on the mud,” added Heavitree. “Ah, well! We aren’t lonely, and we aren’t idle. I’ve caught enough fish for supper for all hands.” “If they are aground they can hardly be blamed for that,” continued the Cornish Sea Scout. “These tides are fair puzzlers. Down our way we’re satisfied with two tides a day; here people get four.” Craddock agreed. It was his first experience of the coast between Cowes and Weymouth, where a second high water follows the first at anything from two to four hours later. He had also been used to a rise and fall of about eighteen feet. Here the range of tide seemed to be about six feet. At sunset the main ebb was almost done. The _Kestrel_, anchored nearer in shore than the _Merlin_, was within fifty yards of the now exposed gravel banks. Taking soundings, Peter found that the depth was a fathom and a half. “So we won’t ground at low tide,” he remarked to his chum. “There’s nothing to worry about. Let’s go below and make ourselves snug. It’s pretty nippy this evening.” Having lighted the riding-lamp and hoisted it on the forestay the two lads retired to the saloon. Soon they were making a literary feast, devouring the pages of their favourite weekly paper. Breathlessly they followed the fearfully exciting adventures. The flight of time passed unheeded. They had almost forgotten their immediate surroundings in visualising a stalwart sergeant riding hot-foot across the boundless prairie in close pursuit of a much-wanted desperado. Suddenly, Molly gave a low growl. “Quiet, little girl!” exclaimed Peter.