Already a number of red and white pennants hoisted “at the dip”—that is, half-way up—indicated that the various craft concerned were ready to receive the impending signal. “Code flag over M, sir,” reported Craddock. “They going to give the winning numbers.” The first number—represented by the code letter G—indicated that No. 7 was the winner of the cup. That showed that the coveted trophy had been carried off by the Poole Sea Scouts, who had not only actually come in first, but were first also on handicap. When the second number went up, Craddock gave a whoop of delight, while the rest of the crew almost fell over themselves with excitement. The _Kestrel_ had won the second prize, but only by the narrow margin of five seconds. CHAPTER XXIII A Dead Heat The _Kestrel’s_ crew had only just finished their much-appreciated tea when the _Merlin’s_ dinghy came alongside. “Hello, Pendennis!” exclaimed Mr. Grant, going on deck to receive his visitor. “What happened to you?” “A slice of bad luck,” replied the Cornishman. “Our anchor tripped during the night when we lay off Newtown. When we turned out we found ourselves bumping on Warden Ledge. We must have drifted nearly seven miles without knowing it. Then, in trying to get off, we strained one of our propeller blades and had to put into Yarmouth to get it straightened. After that we came on here.” “And when did you arrive?” “Early this morning,” replied Mr. Pendennis. “In fact, so early that you lazy fellows were fast asleep. We felt tempted to give you a hail. Heartiest congratulations, Grant, in getting second in that race.” “Thanks. Sorry you didn’t compete.” The Cornishman smiled. “My lads were a bit fagged out,” he replied. “We’ve stood some long tricks this trip. ’Sides, they’re keen on the ex-Service boats’ pulling race and are conserving their strength for that event.” “We’re entering, too, sir,” announced Talbot. “The more the merrier,” rejoined Mr. Pendennis. While the two Scoutmasters were chatting upon various subjects relating to the Jamboree the rest of the _Kestrel’s_ crew went ashore to complete their preparations. The Portsmouth Sea Scouts were as good as their word, for quite a serviceable gig was hauled up on the hard for the _Kestrel_ lads’ use. More than a dozen other ex-Service boats were also out of the water, their respective crews busily engaged in making ready for the fray or, rather, contest. “What’s that stuff you’re putting on?” enquired Craddock of a lad who hailed from Pembroke. “Black lead, look you,” replied the young Welshman. “Want some? We have plenty, look you.” Seeing that several of the competing boats were being treated in a similar fashion, Peter accepted the generous offer and soon the bottom of the borrowed gig was shining in a coat of black lead thinned down with stale beer—a preparation which, although filthy to handle, is in high favour amongst rowers of racing craft.