For the next two days the Spindrift remained at St. Ives, alternately rolling like a barrel or lying well over on the bottom of the harbour, according to the state of the tide. On the first of those two days it would have been sheer madness to attempt to put to sea: the yacht would have been dismasted or sunk before she came abreast of Pendeen. On the second the brief summer gale had moderated. The Spindrift might have made the passage round The Land successfully, but Mr. Graham deemed it prudent to wait until the sea calmed down. It looked quiet enough when viewed from the heights above St. Ives, but there were those long Atlantic rollers between Cape Cornwall and Land\'s End to be taken into account, to say nothing of the strong current setting towards the deadly Brisons.

The greater part of the time was spent ashore. Enthusiastic sailor-lads though they were, the Sea Scouts found that life afloat under these conditions was neither comfortable nor instructive. Sleeping on board, with the deck at an angle of 45 degrees was bad enough, but when it came to eating and living in a confined space that was rolling monotonously until the yacht\'s planks were awash, it was too much for the crew to endure.

At length, the glass began to rise slowly, after suffering a relapse that threatened a harder blow. The weather reports stated that a cyclone of considerable violence and with a narrow path had shifted towards the North Sea. Vessels putting in from the west\'ard reported calm seas, while on the morning of the third day a grey dawn prognosticated a return of fine weather. On a falling tide, and with less than a foot of water under her keel, the Spindrift slipped the friendly mooring-chain—their blessing in disguise—and stood out bound round The Land. A light nor\'-westerly breeze was in her favour, although it was a case of long and short tacks until Zennor Hill was abeam.

"Is that Land\'s End, sir?" asked Hayes, pointing to a bold promontory on the port bow.

"No," replied the Scoutmaster, "that\'s Cape Cornwall. It looks to be the most westerly point of England, and its bold appearance rather bears it out. Don\'t expect too much of Land\'s End. Viewed from seaward it has rather a disappointing aspect compared with Cape Cornwall."

The latter cape rounded, the Spindrift stood well out to avoid the Brisons, tall detached rocks connected with the shore by a submerged reef, over which the tide swirls furiously.

Right ahead, a tall lighthouse reared itself from a low-lying ridge of rocks. It was the Longships, one of the beacons lighting the "Chops of the Channel ".

"We don\'t have to go outside that, sir, do we?" asked Desmond, who was taking his trick at the helm. "The chart shows plenty of water between the Longships and the shore."

"No, inside," replied Mr. Graham. "You\'ll have to keep on a stern-bearing—keep the highest part of the northern Brison west\'ard of the highest part of the southern Brison. That will take you through. There\'s Land\'s End, lads."

Before the noted promontory drew abeam, Mr. Graham saw something that caused him certain misgivings. He had wished to round The Land in calm weather. That wish was being satisfied; but with the calm came a sea-fog. Already the high ground above Land\'s End was being obscured by a pall of fleecy vapour.

To make matters worse the wind died away, leaving the Spindrift rolling sluggishly, with her canvas hanging idly from her swaying yards.

"We\'re in for a fairly thick fog, Desmond," said the Scoutmaster quietly. "Take a compass bearing of Land\'s End before it\'s shut out. Good: now keep her head on sou\'-by-east. Jock, start up the motor. The sooner we get into the English Channel the better."

Five minutes later the Spindrift was enveloped in the dense, clammy fog. From the cockpit it was impossible to see the bowsprit end, while the headsails, grey and grotesquely distorted, seemed baffling in their size and appearance.

Somewhere astern, the Longships Lighthouse was throwing out its fog-signals—two explosive rockets every five minutes. Faintly, and far ahead, came the hoarse bray of a steamer\'s syren. Ashore a dog was barking dismally—the noise too close to be appreciated by the crew of the fog-bound yacht; while in the flat calm, the roar of the surf upon the iron-bound coast was an audible reminder of the fate a small craft might expect should she be carried upon that dangerous shore.

It was the Scoutmaster\'s plan to hold on the present course until the yacht was well clear of the coast; then to shape a course up-Channel until the fog lifted. He was of opinion that it would be far safer to spend a day and a night afloat, if necessary, with plenty of sea-room, than to attempt to find his way into Penzance in a blinding fog, and to risk being swept ashore or being carried upon one of the numerous reefs or detached rocks which abound on the west side of Mount\'s Bay.

Although the Spindrift\'s compass had no deviation card, the Scoutmaster had verified it by taking various bearings on the run from Bude to St. Ives. He found that the compass was remarkably accurate with the vessel\'s head pointing between west and sou\'-west; but whether there was an error in the compass on an easterly course he had not the slightest idea.

Consequently, he decided to take no undue risks on that score, and when, after an hour\'s steady progress under motor-power, the Spindrift was, according to his calculation, four miles south of Land\'s End, he ordered a course east-by-south.

The Sea Scouts had been caught out in fogs off the Essex coast several times. Then the usual procedure was to stand shorewards and drop anchor in about one fathom at low water, until the fog lifted. In such shallow water there was very little risk of being run down.

But in the present circumstances anchoring was out of the question. All they could do was to carry on with the utmost caution, until a lifting of the pall of vapour gave them a chance of verifying their position.

Although the lads did not realize the gravity of the situation to the same extent as did their Scoutmaster, they felt far from happy. It was an eerie experience, forging ahead at about three knots through the mist. No longer could they hear sound from the shore. The noise of the exhaust from the motor deadened everything, the sharp reports reverberating as the sound was thrown back by the enclosing vault of fog.

Suddenly a loud whistling noise rent the air, its weird shriek outvoicing the roar of the motor.

"Down helm!" shouted Mr. Graham.

Findlay, who had relieved the Patrol Leader at the helm, put the tiller hard over. Even as he did so, a faint light appeared through the fog almost on top of the yacht. Then the crew had a brief glimpse of a large can-buoy, painted in black-and-white vertical stripes, as it swept past them, straining at its moorings in the strong tideway.

It was a narrow squeak. A few feet nearer and the Spindrift would have crashed violently into the buoy. Even her stout planks and heavy timbers could not have withstood the shock.

Five seconds later the buoy was lost in the mist, but as a parting reminder it emitted another long-drawn whistle.

"It\'s the Run-something Buoy, sir," said Desmond. "I saw the first three letters painted on the side."

"Runnelstone," said Mr. Graham. "It marks a dangerous rock off the coast. Fortunately, we were outside the buoy. Put her east-sou\'-east, Jock."

Mr. Graham realized that there was something wrong. Although he had allowed, as he thought, ample margin, the original course was not sufficient to give the coast a wide enough berth. Either the compass was in error, or else a strong indraught of tide was setting the yacht ashore. By steering another............