Peter Kelso was walking aft when the Old Man called him back.
"What do you think's wrong, Mr. Kelso?" he asked, with emphasis on the you.
"I can't say off-hand, sir," replied the Third Officer guardedly. "It might be ignition, faulty mixture, wrong timing, carbon brushes in the magneto——"
"How many more things?" demanded Captain Corbold.
"Well, sir," replied his subordinate, with a bright smile, "when I had my first motor-bike I bought a book dealing with possible faults. Each possible fault was numbered. There were nine hundred and forty. Of course, sir, it may be a fairly simple matter to set the thing right. I'll do my best."
In the circumstances the Old Man thought it the best plan to leave the business in the hands of his capable and self-reliant subordinate.
As he turned to go aft he caught sight of Bernard and Geoff. They were standing with their backs to him. Actually they were taking a last look at a dim speck in the sunlit water—the listing hull of the abandoned Arran Dhu.
"You, there!" he sang out.
Not knowing whether the summons was intended for them or not, the chums glanced for'ard and aft before realizing that they were the objects of the Old Man's attention.
"You, there!" bawled Captain Corbold again. "When I sing out, look lively. I don't tell a man twice to do a thing as a rule."
The lads faced about; murmured apologies.
The Old Man scanned them from head to foot, trying "to get the hang of 'em by the cut of their jibs". Frankly he was puzzled. What he saw were two bronzed lads of uncertain age who might or might not be professional yachtsmen. Both were wearing blue jerseys—their white sweaters were still lying in a saturated condition together with other articles of apparel in a similar state in their respective kitbags—blue cloth trousers and shoes that at one time were pipe-clayed. Geoff sported a red stocking-cap, while his chum had to be content with a dilapidated yachting-cap. Forty-eight hours previously it was brand new. Since then it had been overboard twice, jumped upon once, pancaked between the cabin floor and the case containing the yacht's library, and lastly had been retrieved from the liquid mess surging over the floorboards.
"Who and what are you?" asked the Old Man.
Bernard gave their names, adding that they were cruising in the Arran Dhu when the yacht shed her keel.
"Hands?" queried Captain Corbold laconically.
"Not exactly, sir," replied Bernard. "We were sailing the yacht round to Cowes for a—er—an acquaintance."
"H'm; rummy sort of acquaintance that to let you put out with rotten keel-bolts. Afraid to risk his precious hide so he shoved you on to the job, eh?"
So far as the chums were concerned they had not looked upon Mr. Gordon's offer in this light. They kept silent and thought more upon the suggestion.
The Old Man questioned them further, asking who their respective fathers were. The fact that Mr. Woodward was an artist of repute failed to impress him, but when he discovered that Mr. Ensor was a solicitor he formed the conclusion that the two lads were worth his consideration from a financial point of view.
To do him justice Captain Corbold, notwithstanding his gruff manner, would have treated his involuntary guests decently in any case. But in this instance there was yet another chance to add to his monetary perquisites—not because he had been instrumental in saving life, but because it was legitimately open to him to accept a "present" from the chums' parents for their sons' accommodation and keep.
It was "up to him" either to land the youths at the first convenient port at which the Golden Vanity touched or to put them on board a homeward-bound vessel. At the present there was little likelihood of either facility being forthcoming. The first port of call was to be Rio de Janeiro; as for speaking a passing vessel and asking her to receive a couple of passengers, the impending gale from the nor'east would put that step out of court. The longer Captain Corbold kept the lads on board the greater would be the cost of their accommodation—which would not go into the owners' pockets but into that of the skipper.
"All right," he concluded, "you'll mess with the cadets until such time as I can send you home. Mr. Kelso, show these young gentlemen their quarters!"
CHAPTER VIII. The Cadets' Mess
The cadets' quarters in the Golden Vanity consisted of a steel deck-house abaft the mainmast, lighted by circular scuttles with rims of polished brass, and entered by means of a doorway provided with a fairly high coaming to keep out the water when, as frequently happened, there was wet work in the waist—in other words when green seas poured inboard until it was thigh-deep in the lee scuppers.
The Third Officer pulled open the door. Unlike those of houses ashore it opened outwards—another precaution against the thunderous assaults of stormy waves.
"Mind your shins," he cautioned, setting an example by stepping over the raised coaming.
Bernard and Geoff followed, and found themselves blinking in the relatively dim light of the interior of their future quarters.
Presently their eyes grew accustomed to the subdued light. The deck-house was spacious, airy, and spotlessly clean. Against both transverse bulkheads were double tiers of bunks. Some of these, judging by the irregular mounds of blankets, were occupied by cadets of the off-duty watch. Others showed spotlessly clean and obviously new mattresses upon which blankets were neatly folded and stowed.
At the opposite ends of the lee'ard settee were two cadets sitting with knees drawn up and caps tilted well over their noses. Seated at a swing table were three more "young gentlemen" engaged in a more or less diligent manner in "writing up" their logs, which in due course would have to be submitted to the Chief Officer. Yet another was industriously darning a large hole in the heel of a sock. It was his first voyage and already he had discovered that sea-boots are "rough" on socks. There was no need for Bernard and Geoff to be told that it was Cadet Merrifield's first voyage. The youngster's pale complexion, as yet untanned by the sun and the salt spray, was sufficient evidence. Besides, he had only just recovered from a severe bout of sea-sickness and had gamely turned out for the first time to stand Morning Watch. Merrifield's age, to be correct, was fourteen years and six months.
At Third Officer Kelso's appearance the cadets sprang to their feet.
"Carry on!" exclaimed Kelso. "This is Fairclough, Senior Cadet of the Port Watch. Fairclough, your new messmates—Woodward and Ensor. Now I'll leave you to shake down."
"We have to thank you, sir," said Geoff, as the Third turned to go.
"What for?" asked Kelso.
Geoff hesitated. Somehow it did not strike him that the young officer had virtually saved the lives of the two chums; yet, remembering the parlous state of the Arran Dhu, when they left her and the present condition of the weather, he realized that that was precisely what Peter Kelso had done.
"For rescuing us," he replied.
"Nothing much really," declared the Third airily. "We happened to sight you first. That's all."
There was an awkward pause after the Third had left the deck-house. The chums found themselves under the curious gaze of the future messmates. They, in turn, tried to "size up" the cadets of the Port Watch. They felt very much like new boys in a large public school—mightily inferior in the presence of youths who already "knew the ropes". Possibly the glaring defects of their attire made them self-conscious when confronted by the uniformed, budding officers of the British Mercantile Marine.