The Story of Baden-Powell | Page 7

leave of
Skipper Warington, he would take command of the yacht's dinghy and
go off on fishing expeditions with Baden and Frank. It was a dinghy
that moved quickly with a sail, but in all their cruises up creeks and
round about the hulks of Portsmouth Harbour they never came to grief,
and always returned with a good catch of bass and mullet.
Danger did come to the yacht itself, however, on more than one
occasion, and but for the courage and skill of Warington, the world
might never have heard of B.-P. and the other brothers. Once, in the
Koh-i-noor (a 10-tonner with about eighteen tons displacement), which
was the second yacht designed by Warington, the boys were cruising
about the south coast, when, towards evening, just off Torquay, a gale
got up, and the sea began to get uncommon rough. As the gale
increased almost to a hurricane and the waves dashed a larger amount
of spray over the gunwale of the gallant little yacht, Warington decided
to change his course and run back to Weymouth. The night was getting
dark, and the storm increased. To add to the anxieties of the skipper his
crew of boys, though showing no funk, began to grow green about the
gills, and presently Warington found himself in command of an entirely
sea-sick crew. He was unable to leave the helm, and for over thirty-one
hours he stood there, giving his orders in a cheerful voice to the
groaning youngsters who were more than once driven to the ship's
drenched and dripping side. Fortunately Warington knew the coast well,
for it was much too dark to see a chart, and so, despite the raging
tempest, the 10-tonner fought her way through the waves while the sea
broke continually over her side, drenching the shivering boys, who
stuck to their posts, and every now and then shouted to each other with
chattering teeth that it was "awful fun."

As showing the resourcefulness of the crew, I may narrate another
yachting story. One Saturday, off Yarmouth, when the Baden-Powells
were thinking of a race for which they were entered on the following
Monday, a storm suddenly came on, which played such havoc with the
rigging that the mast was snapped in two, and the whole racing kit went
overboard. With clenched teeth the youngsters set to work and, with
many a long pull and a strong pull, got all the wreck on board. Then
with axes they slashed away at the wire-rigging, and set to work to rig
up a jury-mast. All Sunday they toiled--the spars on an 18-tonner are
no child's play--and at last they were able to rig up a jury-mast which
would carry the mainsail with four reefs, while the foresail was able to
catch the wind of heaven with only two. On Monday morning the yacht
sailed out of Yarmouth fully rigged, and made off to the regatta with as
cheerful a crew as ever braved the elements. The result of this labour
was that the Baden-Powells, with a jury rig, won a second prize, and
came in for the warm commendation of wondering and admiring
sailors.
As I have said, in these expeditions the boys did seamen's work. They
learned how to set sails, how to splice, how to reeve gear, how to moor
a ship, and make all ready for scrubbing the bottom. It was a fine sight
to see the healthy younkers, with trousers rolled over the knee, ankles
well under slate-coloured oozing mud, scrubbing away at the bottom of
the ship, and laughing and singing among themselves, while the
reflective Warington, pipe in mouth, looked on and encouraged the
toilers.
All round the English coast sailed the Baden-Powells, fighting their
way to glory in regattas, and enjoying themselves from sunrise to
sunset. On racing days it was a case of "strictly to business," and each
boy had his proper station and knew well how to pull or slack out ropes.
On other days it was a case of fun and frolic, and here, of course, B.-P.
was the life and soul of the party. There were no squabbles, no petty
jealousies; never did the brothers throughout their boyhood come to
fisticuffs. But while there was perfect equality among them and no
favouritism was ever shown, Ste was regarded as the prime comedian,
and there was never any question that when theatricals were the order

of the day he should reign in supreme command.
One of the houses taken by Mrs. Baden-Powell for the holidays was
Llandogo Falls, a most romantic place on the Wye, the property of Mr.
Gallenga, the Italian correspondent of the Times, who had previously
got mixed up in a deep political plot in Italy, whereby he gained many
useful secrets, but whereby, at the