Читать книгу The Sea Scouts of the Kestrel - Percy Francis Westerman - Страница 6

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Peter Craddock had to decide promptly upon his plan of action. Two courses suggested themselves: either to arouse Mr. Grant and give the alarm, or else to scare the miscreant away.

He decided upon the latter plan. Too much valuable time would be wasted in waking the Scoutmaster. More than likely the other Sea Scouts would be roused; and then, if one of them struck a match, the highly explosive mixture of air and petrol in the cabin would go up with terrific force. No; his best plan would be to frighten away the cowardly rogue, who was certainly counting upon the supposition that the crew of the Kestrel were sleeping soundly, in order to carry out his diabolical plan.

Grasping an electric torch that he always kept within hand’s reach during the night watches, Peter slipped out of his bunk, glided noiselessly out of the cabin, and gained the cockpit. Then, directing the torch towards the quay, he released a dazzling ray.

He was too late to spot the miscreant. In spite of the Sea Scout’s cautious movements, the man had heard the disturbing sounds. Afraid to complete his dastardly work, the fellow had taken to his heels. Peter could hear his boots clattering upon the stone paving.

It was now almost dead low water. The Kestrel was high and dry, supported by legs and lying parallel to and at a distance of a couple of yards from the quay, the edge of which rose quite eight feet above the deck. Consequently the quay served as a ridge to prevent the rays of Peter’s torch sweeping the whole extent of the open expanse between the line of cottages and the creek.

By the time Craddock had gained the cabin-top, whence he could command a view of the adjoining ground, the fellow had disappeared. Although this escape of the miscreant was a disappointment, Peter realised that his hideous plans had been frustrated.

“Who’s there?” enquired Mr. Grant’s voice from the cabin. Aroused by Craddock’s movements—and it is remarkable how plainly the faintest sound can be heard on deck when only three-quarters of an inch of matchboarding intervenes—the Scoutmaster sat up, listening intently. Evidently the fumes of the petrol had not as yet penetrated the bulkhead separating his cabin from the one in which the seven Sea Scouts slept.

Before replying Peter re-entered the saloon. As he did so the puppy gave an aggressive growl. Brandon woke up.

“Phew!” he ejaculated. “What a whiff!”

“It is,” agreed Peter. “Turn out, old son, and rouse the others. Don’t let any of them strike a light. The place is chock full of petrol fumes.”

“What’s that—petrol fumes?” demanded Mr. Grant from the partitioned-off cabin.

“Yes, sir,” replied Craddock. “Can you come on deck? I’ve a torch handy.”

By this time the other Sea Scouts with one exception were “beginning to sit up and take notice.” During the process, Talbot, who was sleeping in a hammock, bumped his head against a deck beam. His swaying resting-place swayed still more, slinging him out and depositing him on one of the bunks where Wilson was sleeping soundly. Mutual protests arose only to be checked by the Patrol Leader, who bade the pair, “Stow that row and get your things on.”

Meanwhile Mr. Grant had hurriedly dressed. Making sure that every lad realised the supreme importance of refraining from striking a match, he told Brandon, Craddock, Heavitree, and Carline to follow him while the others dispersed the dangerous fumes from the interior of the saloon.

“Which way did the fellow go, Peter?” asked Mr. Grant.

Craddock told him.

“Away from his cottage, then,” continued the Scoutmaster. “Good! We’ll picket the place. A scoundrel like that deserves all he gets; but it’s just possible that he didn’t realise what might have happened. His idea might have been to set the yacht on fire and give us a scare. He may not know the properties of air and petrol as an explosive mixture. Although he only squirted the petrol on the tarpaulin on the cabin-top, the fumes, being heavier than the atmosphere, settled inside the boat.”

Accompanied by the four Sea Scouts, Mr. Grant made his way to Carlo Bone’s cottage, a ramshackle stone structure of two storeys situated about a hundred yards from the furthermost row of houses that formed the hamlet of Polkebo. At the back was a neglected garden of about a quarter of an acre in extent and enclosed by a low wall of ashlar masonry. There were two doors to the cottage, one opening directly upon the street, and gained by a flight of eight stone steps; the other led into the garden and was also reached by steps. The windows were small, heavily barred, and so high from the ground that it was impossible for anyone to see in without the aid of a ladder.

“It wants an hour and a half to sunrise,” remarked Mr. Grant, after he had consulted the luminous dial of his wristlet watch. “Possibly Mr. Bone will return before then. I doubt whether he has had time to do so already. In any case, we’ll investigate.”

Posting Brandon and Heavitree at the front of the cottage, Mr. Grant followed by Craddock and Carline, scaled the low wall and crept up to the back door. The Scoutmaster flashed his torch upon the latch. A spider had built a web across the door. The air was warm and saturated with dew, and glistening particles of moisture hung from the undisturbed web. In fact, webs abounded. Almost every tree and shrub was festooned with them.

Obviously Blueskin had not re-entered his cottage by that door. Satisfied on that ground, Mr. Grant withdrew with his companions. The garden was, after all, private property. Legally the would-be victims were trespassing. In addition, they were laying themselves open to an act of violence should Carlo Bone return and find them there. The poacher, according to report, would not hesitate to use a gun or a knife should he find himself cornered.

Mr. Grant, however, had no wish to corner the fellow. For the present he wanted to be in a position to prove that Blueskin was the perpetrator of the outrage and a step in that direction was to be able to make certain that the man was away from his cottage. If so, on his return he would be almost sure to bring with him the reek of petrol, even if he had got rid of the implements by which he had sprayed the fluid.

“Now, you fellows,” he said in a low voice, addressing Craddock and Carline, “I want you to keep a sharp look-out on the back of the cottage. Take cover, and keep your eyes and ears on the alert.”

“And if he shows up, sir, do we tackle him?” asked Peter.

“Rather not; that’s a job for the police. I’ll look you up occasionally. I’ll see what Brandon and Heavitree are doing.”

Before rejoining the Sea Scouts posted in concealment in the front of the building, Mr. Grant examined the front door. Here, as in the case of the back entrance, the presence of an undisturbed spider’s web gave conclusive proof that Blueskin had not entered the cottage by that means. Since he could not do so through the barred windows, the inference was that he was still away.

For the rest of the hours of darkness, the Scoutmaster divided his time between the Kestrel and the two observation posts. Everything seemed quiet. No sound came from either within or without the darkened cottage. If Carlo Bone were to return, it seemed probable that he would do so before dawn in order to avoid recognition from any of the early risers of the hamlet.

At length grey dawn paled in the north-eastern sky. The birds began singing, cocks crowed. The mist over the creek drifted slowly in the faint air-currents. In one of the cottages smoke began to issue from the squat stone chimney.

At sunrise the Scoutmaster withdrew his observers, replacing Craddock and Heavitree by Symington and Talbot. Wilson took Carline’s place, but Craddock asked to be allowed to remain.

From the cottages men went forth unto their work and to their labour. On the rising tide the fishing boats put out. By five o’clock the whole place was astir.

Mr. Grant was frankly disappointed. The only result of the Sea Scouts’ vigil was, in his opinion, that they had proved that Carlo Bone had not returned to his cottage.

“It’s no use waiting any longer, lads,” he said. “We’ll get breakfast—you must all be ravenous—and then I’ll see the police.”

Even as he spoke, the front door of the cottage opened and Blueskin appeared. He was fully dressed, even to his cap and leather thigh-boots, while across one shoulder he carried a painted canvas sack. Both eyes were badly discoloured, and the scowling look he gave to the Sea Scouts added still further to the repulsiveness of his features. Once he paused as if he were about to utter a jibe, but thinking better of it, he trudged stolidly up the lane leading to the high road between Truro and Falmouth.

“We’ve been on the wrong tack this time, lads,” declared the Scoutmaster. “He’s been in his cottage all the time. Of course, he may have a confederate in this business: that we’ll have to find out or get the police to see to. Meanwhile, breakfast, and then all hands turn in. It’s spoilt our working day, I’m afraid.”