The Mascot
For some moments the Sea Scouts remained dumbfounded at their chum’s
prowess. Heavitree, by far the least perturbed, stood silently regarding
the prostrate form of his late antagonist.
“You’ve killed him, Fred,” exclaimed Wilson.
“Not I,” replied Heavitree. “He’ll be all right in ten minutes or so,
’cept perhaps for a bad headache. Did he give you much of a hack,
Peter?”
“He tried to,” said Craddock, as he examined his shin. The skin had been
slightly lacerated and was bleeding a little. The moisture draining from
the Sea Scout’s saturated shorts and mingling with the crimson fluid
made the abrasion look far worse than it actually was. “He tried to; but
his feet sort of side-slipped. My word, Fred! That was a knock-out blow.
Where did you learn that?”
Before the specialist in the art of “knocking out” could reply, a number
of fisherfolk and villagers came hurrying to the quay. One of the number
had seen Blueskin floored, and had communicated the news to the
frequenters of the “Dog and Gun,” with the result that “closing time”
was anticipated for the first time in the annals of that ancient inn to
the extent of nearly three minutes.
“Sakes, if ’tisn’t Blueskin!” exclaimed a bearded fisherman. “Laid out
prapper-like, tu. ’Ave ye been hittin’ he ower head with a hammer?”
“No,” replied Brandon. “He went for one of us: kicked him. So Heavitree
knocked him down.”
“What with?” asked the astonished Cornishman.
“His fist. It was a fair blow,” declared the Patrol Leader.
“Did he now? Us ’ud think ’twould take more’n a fist tu settle the
loikes of ’e. We’m right glad, we’m is; but harkee—Blueskin’s a twi’ble
dangerous man to fall foul wi’. He’ll get his own back, loike, e’en if
he’s tu wait ten year. Isn’t that so, friends?”
The other villagers nodded their heads.
“We’ll look out, then,” rejoined Brandon. “Well, there’s nothing more to
be done, I take it. Come on, Peter, and change your gear.”
With the rescued puppy nestling in the Patrol Leader’s arms the Sea
Scouts returned on board, leaving the Polkebo folk to carry the still
unconscious form of their unpopular fellow-villager to the ramshackle
and sordid cottage which he called his home.
The Sea Scouts crowded into their partly finished cabin. The lamp had
been lighted; a large iron kettle was on the stove. Compared with the
comfortable cabin of the little _Puffin_, the place looked barn-like and
cheerless. It had yet to be made into a really habitable cabin, but even
now it was rain-proof and afforded the lads a shelter even if it were a
case of “sleeping rough.”
“Rummy looking little beast, what?” commented Brandon, pausing in the
act of drying the puppy’s coat to study the general appearance of the
rescued animal. Even for a puppy its hair was long, its ears drooping.
Neck, chest and forefeet were white, as was a blaze extending almost to
the tip of its jet-black nose. The rest of the fur was of a dark grey
hue.
“It’s our mascot, anyway,” declared Wilson. “My word, Peter; you were
pretty smart in diving after it.”
“Was I?” rejoined Craddock in a muffled tone as he struggled into a dry
jersey. “I hadn’t any idea how long I was under. It was just luck
grabbing the pup as I did.”
“What shall we call it?” enquired Symington.
“That’s for Peter to say,” replied Brandon. “He saved the pup. . . .
Hello! Here’s the dinghy alongside.”
“Sorry I’m late, lads!” exclaimed Mr. Grant, as he stepped into the
cabin, blinking as he did so at the strong light compared to the
darkness without. “We’ve had rather an interesting yarn with Scoutmaster
Pendennis, haven’t we, Carline? His Sea Scouts are going to the
Jamboree, too; so we’ll—Hello! What’s that?”
“Our mascot, sir,” replied Brandon, holding out the pup for inspection.
“Where did you get it from?” asked Mr. Grant.
“It was that chap Carlo Bone’s, sir,” was the somewhat vague reply.
The Scoutmaster showed no great enthusiasm over the announcement. He did
not like the idea of the lads accepting any favours from a surly
good-for-nothing rascal of that type.
“Did he give it you?” he asked.
“No, sir,” replied the Patrol Leader. “He threw the pup into the creek,
and Peter fetched it out. Then——”
“Suppose you tell the yarn from the beginning, Brandon,” said Mr. Grant
quietly. “This sounds rather interesting.”
Frank Brandon did so. The Scoutmaster listened without making any
comment until the story was completed.
“It served Blueskin right,” he remarked. “I’m sorry we’ve had a row, but
he evidently asked for it. We’ll have to be careful when he’s about. I
didn’t know, you were a budding pugilist, Heavitree. Where did you learn
to use your fists?”
“At school, sir. We were taught boxing. I was supposed to be rather good
at it; only one day I hit a fellow rather hard. It was a sparring match.
I really didn’t mean to hurt him, but I did. After that I felt afraid of
myself and dropped boxing.”
“We’ve won our mascot, haven’t we, sir?” enquired Brandon.
Mr. Grant assented.
“We were going to give it a name when you came back, sir,” said Peter.
“Carry on, then,” prompted the Scoutmaster. “What do you suggest?”
“Bruin, sir; it’s like a teddy bear.”
“H’m!” exclaimed Mr. Grant dubiously. “It’s hardly the correct thing to
call a female dog by a masculine name. You’d better start on another
tack. Well, that’s a matter for you fellows to discuss. How have you
been getting on?”
“We’ve finished the bulkhead to your cabin,” announced Peter. “The
cabin-top has had the first coat of paint ready for the canvas to be
stretched. Wilson and Talbot have been fitting the bunks in the main
cabin, so we won’t have to sleep on the floor in future.”
“That’s good!” said Mr. Grant encouragingly. “To-morrow if it’s fine
we’ll polish off that cabin-top. We ought to have the masts stepped, and
the standing rigging set up by the end of the week. That reminds me:
Scoutmaster Pendennis is taking a patrol to the Jamboree in the
_Merlin_. We’ll be cruising in company unless the _Merlin_ is too smart
for us. I hope our craft will prove to be fairly fast—enough to keep up
with her. Talking about names: we haven’t given our boat a name yet.”
“How would _Kestrel_ do, sir?” suggested Brandon. “A merlin is a sort of
hawk, and so is a kestrel.”
“Good idea!” agreed Mr. Grant. “Now, you fellows: supper and bed. We’ve
another long day’s work in front of us to-morrow. I don’t fancy Mr.
Carlo Bone will favour us with his undesirable attendance to-night.”
In ordinary circumstances the Sea Scouts slept like logs. Already they
were quite hardened to lying on bare boards. To-night for the first time
since their arrival at Polkebo Creek, they were sleeping either on bunks
extending the whole length and both sides of the main saloon or in
hammocks slung from the beams. Yet, in spite of the great improvement in
comfort, they showed no inclination for repose. They chattered,
discussing a suitable name for their mascot and going over the events of
that memorable evening until Mr. Grant’s voice, coming from the
adjoining cabin, bade them keep quiet.
After that the silence was broken only by the whimpering of the puppy.
She, too, was doubtless going through the terrifying time when she was
struggling under water weighted down by a stone.
It was not until Peter Craddock put his arm over the side of his bunk
and stroked the now soft, silky hair that the little animal quieted
down. Licking the hand of her rescuer, she gave a little sigh of
gratification and confidence and dropped into a sound slumber.
Bodily tired though he was, Peter simply could not sleep. He lay
thinking and thinking—which is a jolly bad symptom in a healthy youth.
He was puzzling his brains to decide upon a suitable name for the
_Kestrel’s_ mascot.
Presently he realised that fine rain was falling on the tarpaulin placed
over the uncompleted cabin-top. It was a strange sort of rain—falling
intermittently. It smelt strange, too.
“Petrol!” thought the lad.
He sniffed suspiciously. This surmise was confirmed. The interior of the
cabin was reeking with the fumes of that highly inflammable spirit.
In a flash the Sea Scout’s mind was alert.
There could be but one solution to the mystery. Blueskin, utterly
reckless in his mad desire to revenge himself, was spraying petrol on
the yacht’s deck. At any moment a lighted match thrown by the miscreant
on the quayside would make the _Kestrel_ a mass of flaming woodwork.