“I’m afraid you’d feel rather fed-up before the month had passed,” observed the Scoutmaster. “Any place, however much it appeals to you at first, becomes positively irksome if you’re kept there against your inclinations. Well, there’s no sign of the _Merlin_ in the offing. It’s a pity, because it looks as if she won’t be able to take part in the opening sailing race to-morrow afternoon for the Silver Cup.” “Are we racing, sir?” asked Craddock eagerly. “Rather.” “Good egg, sir!” exclaimed Peter. “Time to be on our return journey,” observed Mr. Grant, consulting his wristlet watch. “We must be on board before sunset.” His listeners wondered why. They soon found out; for on returning to the _Kestrel_ they noticed the Sea Scouts on the various craft mustered on deck. A bugle sounded. Everyone stood at the Alert, while a forest of burgees and ensigns fluttered to their respective decks. Then in the gathering gloom innumerable riding-lights were hoisted in position. It was the eve of the Jamboree. CHAPTER XXII The Race for the Cup Punctually at 1.45 on the following afternoon the eventful race for the Silver Cup started. Nine yachts, each measuring thirty feet or more on the water-line, were towed into position and anchored. There they swung to the weak flood tide with canvas stowed just as if they had “brought-up” for the rest of the day. On board the _Kestrel_, the third from the starboard end of the line, four very serious Sea Scouts, with Mr. Grant in command, sat breathlessly waiting for the starting gun. Although the conditions governing the race were new to them—in the old _Puffin_ they had always had a flying start following a five-minute gun—they realised they had a fighting chance provided they did their very best and did not bungle; for not until after the races were completed would the name of the winning yacht be known. That was one of the surprises of racing under a sealed handicap. “Fifty seconds!” announced Mr. Grant calmly. “Stand by! Fifty-five . . . fifty-six . . . fifty-seven . . . fifty-eight . . . fifty-nine. . . .” “Bang!” Simultaneously with the flash of the starting gun the hitherto practically motionless crews of the competing craft were figuratively galvanised into activity. In as short a time as possible, the bare poles would be hidden by the towering canvas, anchors would be weighed, and the vessels would leap forward on the determined contest. On board the _Kestrel_, although her crew had had plenty of practice in getting under way, they had not had to take into consideration the fact that at a few yards’ distance on either side other crews were doing the same thing. Besides, they were short-handed, five being the maximum number allowed. The rest of the _Kestrel’s_ complement were ashore, where, in common with several hundred Sea Scouts and other spectators, they were yelling themselves hoarse with excitement.