“Isn’t there any District Commissioner here?” he enquired of another Scoutmaster. “If so, he ought to take charge. We’re doing little good huddled together. Survivors might be thrown ashore anywhere between the mouth of the harbour and Selsea Bill.” “That’s a fact,” agreed the other Scoutmaster. “Hello! Here’s a car. Perhaps——” The rays of the headlights seemed to stop short within a few yards of the car, which had stopped almost at the extreme edge of the hard ground. Another four or five feet and the wheels would have sunk in the soft sand above high-water mark. Mr. Grant went to the side of the car. He saw with feelings of satisfaction that one of the occupants wore the distinctive rig of a District Commissioner. “Glad you’ve come, sir,” he began. “We want someone to straighten things out.” He explained. The Commissioner, a retired Army officer, grasped the situation at once. His powerful voice pierced the fog. In five minutes, discipline had remedied the defect of individual initiative, and from a fixed point patrols were extending right and left with an interval of ten paces between each Sea Scout. Even at that short distance each watcher was invisible to his nearest neighbour, but they were within easy hailing distance, so that communication throughout the whole line—there were about 250 Sea Scouts spread over a front of nearly one and a half miles—could be maintained without difficulty. The crew of the _Kestrel_ found themselves in patrol formation stepping out briskly over the board-hard sand just above low-water mark. There were Troops ahead of them and behind them. At every half-minute came crisp orders from the Scoutmasters of the rearmost parties; until, glancing over his shoulder, Mr. Grant discovered that the patrol immediately behind the _Kestrel’s_ crew had extended and halted. It was now the turn of the Aberstour Sea Scouts. Talbot halted and faced seawards; the rest continued their march, Symington halting at the tenth pace and so on, until the Patrol Leader found himself on the right of his section of the line. It was an awesome business standing still and peering through the fog at the misty white surf as it broke and receded almost within a couple of yards of the watchers. All of them were already drenched with the flying spray, and although the salt water felt quite warm at first, a succession of shower baths soon became not only monotonous but extremely unpleasant. What was happening out to sea they knew not. They could only conjure up mental pictures of the struggle for life on the part of the shipwrecked crew as their crazy, ill-conditioned craft was being rapidly battered into scrap-iron somewhere within a mile of one section of that far-flung line of would-be lifesavers. Presently Brandon hailed his chum. “Have you got Molly?” he enquired. “Yes,” replied Peter, who was holding the pup in his arms. “She’s with me, but she’s got the wind up frightfully.”