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 same time, he was obliged to flee out of Italy and return to England.  We fancy this story in its full details must have appealed strongly to the imagination of Baden-Powell, whose after-life, could it be fully written, would satisfy the keenest appetite for daring, excitement, and romance.  But to return to Llandogo