Читать книгу The Sea Scouts of the Kestrel - Percy Francis Westerman - Страница 5

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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.