Past a couple of “scrapped” monitors, the unwieldy appearance and huge guns of which afforded considerable interest to the _Kestrel’s_ crew, the ketch tore through the water. Off Ryde they sighted two other craft—a yawl and a converted lifeboat—both of which bore the distinguishing flag of the Sea Scout brotherhood. “Now, where do we make for, sir?” asked Brandon. “Steer for that fort,” replied Mr. Grant, indicating a circular structure painted in black and yellow squares and rising sheer out of the sea. “Is that a fort?” enquired Talbot. “It looks more like a gigantic cheese. Why, there are two more!” “Yes, and we have to pass between the pair,” continued the Scoutmaster. “See that low-lying belt of trees? That’s Hayling. The entrance to Chichester Harbour is just beyond.” Presently half a dozen sailing craft were noticed on the port quarter. These comprised the Portsmouth and Gosport contingent of Sea Scouts, while astern a couple of motor launches each towing two whalers announced their identity as part of Southampton’s representation at the forthcoming Jamboree. By this time there were nearly twenty yachts and boats within a radius of half a mile all making for a common point—the entrance to Chichester Harbour. Many Sea Scout craft had already arrived. Others were on the way, not only from the West, but from the East Coast. Provided the weather held, the success of the Jamboree seemed assured. “Well, thank goodness we’re not leading the procession,” exclaimed Mr. Grant. “I’ll gladly allow someone else to show us the way in. From all accounts it’s a very tricky and badly marked entrance, so we must be thankful we haven’t to grope and scrape over the Bar.” “I can’t see any entrance,” said Craddock. Viewed from seaward the coast-line appeared to consist of an unbroken line of low-lying, sandy shore with a few houses and trees, extending eastward as far as the eye could reach until only the tree-tops showed above the horizon in the neighbourhood of Selsea Bill. Ahead, as the _Kestrel_ was now pounding, were masses of white foam as the rollers broke on the flat shoals of the dangerous Winners. Yet the leading craft held unswervingly on their course, as if they meant to hurl themselves to destruction upon those formidable surf-swept sandbanks. Presently a small white motor boat was sighted ahead and quite a mile from the beach. She, too, displayed the Scout burgee, and as each approaching craft drew level with her a uniformed official shouted directions to the newcomers. “What yacht is that?” demanded the Commissioner as the _Kestrel_ drew near. “Where are you from? Good. What’s your draught? Four feet; then you’ve plenty of water. Keep close to the west shore inside the entrance until you sight a buoy on your starboard hand. Then port helm and carry on up the boomed channel.”