At the last bend, which was so gentle that there was no necessity to gybe and reset the spinnaker, the _Kestrel_ was fourth. A Poole boat, staggering under a press of bellying sail, was leading. Following her came the centre-keeled Humber cutter, the crew of which had set a large square sail in addition to their working canvas. Next the Bristol boat, which, having made good following her temporary grounding, had failed to maintain her advantage while running. Less than a quarter of a mile ahead could be seen the anchored boat that marked one end of the finishing line. The distance was too short to enable the _Kestrel_ to overhaul the remaining three ahead. True, she drew level with the Bristol cutter; but, impeded by the far-flung bow wave of the latter, she was unable to continue her advantage. Yet the pace was terrific. Peter found himself wondering what would happen when the competing yacht crossed the line. There seemed no room to turn owing to the crowd of anchored yachts and boats beyond. “Stand by!” cautioned Mr. Grant crisply. Bang! went the gun for the foremost yacht. Five seconds later another report greeted the arrival of the second. Then, almost simultaneously, the gun fired twice. “Down spinnaker!” No need for cautious movements now. Down came the clouds of light canvas. The spinnaker boom was topped up in double quick time. Over went the helm. Brandon and Craddock hauled away on the mainsheet. Heeling, the _Kestrel_ turned into the wind, shot clear of the course, and dropped anchor almost in her former berth. “It’s been a thundering good race,” declared Mr. Grant, moistening his parched lips; for now that the ordeal was over his tongue felt unpleasantly dry. “Signal to Talbot and the others and tell them to come aboard. We’ll get tea. Hello! There’s the _Merlin_. When did she arrive, I wonder?” The Falmouth Sea Scouts had brought up about a hundred yards from the _Kestrel_, and several other craft lay at anchor between them. Without a dinghy, Mr. Grant could not pay her a visit, although all on board the _Kestrel_ were naturally curious to know what had happened to her. Presently Symington, Talbot and Wilson, and Eric Little, together with the pup, came alongside. “I say, sir!” exclaimed Talbot eagerly. “Can we enter for the ex-service boats’ rowing match? We’ve been talking to some Portsmouth Sea Scouts. They say they’ll lend us a gig, if we like to have a shot.” “Certainly,” replied Mr. Grant, although he knew that his lads, unaccustomed to pulling a heavy four-oared boat and a strange one at that, stood a poor chance of securing a win. “Row ashore and accept the offer, and then hurry back for tea. What time does the race start? Six? Good!” Talbot had been gone only a few minutes when Craddock reported that the flagship was making a general signal. “They’re about to announce the result of the race,” he added. “I’ve hoisted our answering pennant, sir.”