Chapter XII: Out of Action

Mr. Grant went to his cabin for a very serious reason. His hand was rapidly swelling. The slight cut he had received when he rescued young Marner from the sinking schooner had resulted in an undoubted case of blood-poisoning. He, who was prone to boast of his immunity from that sort of thing, had at last fallen a victim to the dangerous malady.

For some time he had suspected it. He ought to have gone ashore at Dartmouth and seen a doctor. He would have done but for the fear that he might be ordered to lay up. In that case, the voyage of the _Kestrel_ would have been indefinitely prolonged—long after the forthcoming Jamboree was over. Although Brandon was quite a capable fellow, he held no warrant, without which Sea Scouts are not permitted to go afloat; and it was doubtful whether a fully qualified man could be found to undertake the duties of temporary Scoutmaster.

So, rather than spoil the lads’ chance of taking part in the Chichester Harbour Jamboree, Mr. Grant risked his own.

He had had a restless night. Almost hourly he had crept softly from his bunk lest he should disturb the rest of the crew, and had held the injured hand in very warm water. But all to no seeming purpose. The middle finger was swelling badly, and, what was ominous, sharp, stabbing pains were running up his arm. Curiously, the cut at the base of the fingers appeared to be healing, while the swelling was most pronounced on the knuckle of the same digit.

As he kept his hand in the hot water, Mr. Grant’s thoughts turned to the incident of the bucket. It seemed strange indeed that already the maiden cruise of the _Kestrel_ should be marked by three distinct—or apparently distinct—attempts to bring her to disaster. But were they distinct? Could it be that Blueskin Bone was the instigator of all three? Dick Marner’s innocent admission that his father and Carlo Bone were more than neighbours, coupled with the discovery that Marner senior’s story of the motor bicycle was a deliberate falsehood, tended to shake Mr. Grant’s previous belief in Blueskin’s innocence in the attempt at arson. Carlo Bone had gone to sea. Was it beyond the bounds of coincidence that he was one of the crew of the S.S. _Lumberjack_?

He went on thinking and thinking. Presently, in a hazy sort of way, he became aware that his thoughts were ridiculously disjointed and absurd. The pain in his arm seemed to be subsiding, but in its stead he felt uncomfortably hot. His head was buzzing. Grey lights danced in front of his eyes.

Then Mr. Grant did something he had never done before in his life. He fainted.

A few minutes later Peter Craddock, who was making his way to the fo’c’sle, found his Scoutmaster lying inertly across the raised coaming of his cabin doorway.

Checking his first impulse to alarm the rest of the crew, Peter lifted the unconscious form and carried it into the saloon. Here, with very little effort, the Sea Scout lifted Mr. Grant on the lee’ard settee; then, going to the companion way, asked Heavitree in a matter-of-fact voice to step below.

“Don’t say anything to the other chaps,” cautioned Peter, when his chum came below. “Mr. Grant’s fainted. I found him lying in the doorway. Get some sal volatile and a basin of cold water while I loosen his collar.”

“What made him faint?” asked Heavitree, as he carried out Craddock’s instructions.

“Don’t know,” replied Peter. “It’s not concussion.”

“His finger, perhaps?”

“Rot!” ejaculated the lad contemptuously. Then he caught sight of the badly swollen hand. “By Jove! Believe you’re right, old son. I knew he had a nasty gash, but I never knew it was as bad as this. Skylight’s open: you might open all the scuttles. The more fresh air the better.”

Presently Mr. Grant opened his eyes and looked dazedly at his youthful attendants.

“Where am I?” he asked.

“You’re all right, sir,” replied Peter reassuringly. “Heavitree and I are looking after you. Lie still a little longer.”

The Scoutmaster did so. The ghastly greyish hue on his features was giving place to the glow of returning vitality. His thoughts were again becoming coherent, yet he felt a curious sense of resentment at being ordered to remain quiet.

With returning consciousness came the agonising throb of his swollen arm. His hand was trailing over the side of the settee. It felt like lead. He was hardly able to raise it.

“Silly of me to have gone off like that,” he soliloquised. “Well, that’s put me out of the running for a bit. Hang it all—no! What am I thinking about?”

A vision of the _Kestrel_ with her youthful crew flashed across his mind. So far all was going well. The sea was calm, the weather fine. Brandon knew the course, but would he be able to take the yacht into port?

“I’ll go on deck now,” he declared.

“No, you won’t, sir,” countered Craddock firmly. “You aren’t fit to go. Wait till we’ve done something to that hand of yours. You’ll only make it worse if you bang it against something. I’ll dress it for you. Does it hurt much?”

“A little,” admitted Mr. Grant deprecatingly, for the pain was now intense. Possibly in his fall he had jarred the already badly swollen limb.

Peter went for’ard to boil some water and make a bread poultice. While the water was being heated he went on deck to tell Brandon and the others of what had occurred.

He found Talbot at the helm. Symington and Wilson were trying with varying success to induce Molly to sit up and beg. The pup was willing enough, but the gentle motion of the yacht was too much for her. Also she had a not unfounded suspicion that the cat rescued from the _Euterpe_—young Marner had emphatically declined to take it with him—was secretly helping herself to the pup’s bowl of milk.

“Where’s Brandon?” asked Peter.

“Up aloft,” replied Talbot, glancing at the cross-trees.

“I’ll be down in half a shake, old son!” called out the Patrol Leader. “I’ve been trying to sight Portland Bill. It’s too far off yet.”

Craddock swept the horizon. Right astern and on the port quarter the red hills of Devon were merging into the mist of a hot summer’s day. Broad on the port beam, where the chalk cliffs make their first appearance on the south shores of England, land was no longer visible. Neither was it ahead. To starboard, Peter knew, was the broad expanse of the English Channel. For the first time in his life, Craddock was about to find himself out of sight of land. With the exception of Brandon, the other Sea Scouts were to have a similar experience: afloat with an unbroken horizon of sea and sky forming a complete circle of which the little _Kestrel_ formed the exact centre. It was true that they had been out of sight of land during the fog, but that wasn’t the same thing. Had there been no fog they would have seen the rugged Cornish coast the whole time. Now, even in the clearest weather, they would probably be an hour or more out of sight of land until the wedge-shaped promontory of Portland showed up on the port bow.

Even as Craddock looked, a strange, muffled voice exclaimed:

“Isn’t it quite about time you fellows liberated me from this uncomfortable apartment?”