THE SEA SCOUTS

OF

THE KESTREL

By

PERCY F. WESTERMAN

With Coloured Illustrations

“What’s happened to Mr. Grant, I wonder?” remarked Sea Scout Peter Craddock, as he gazed anxiously through the gathering twilight. “He’s late.”

“So will we be, if we keep hanging-on to the slack,” rejoined Patrol Leader Frank Brandon. “There are only eighteen more days to the Sea Scouts’ Jamboree, and if we’re to be in it, there’s not a minute to waste. Mr. Grant’s all right, never you fear.”

Craddock straightened his aching back, wiped the perspiration from his eyes, and resumed his voluntary though tedious task. He, too, realised that time was precious if the “Otters” were to be represented at the forthcoming and eagerly anticipated nautical festivities of the Sea Scouts’ Jamboree.

The “Otters” were a long way from their native Aberstour. Force of circumstances had hit them pretty hard of late, but, like corks, they bobbed up again under adversity as all scouts should do.

For one thing, their staunch little yacht Puffin was no more. She had foundered at her moorings in a terrific autumn gale that had sprung up with such suddenness that the official weather forecast had failed to give any warning whatsoever. Then, Mr. Grant, their Scoutmaster, had a serious illness that put him out of the running for three months. Patrol Leader Frank Brandon was away on a five months’ involuntary voyage on a tramp steamer, and had only just returned.

In the absence of Scoutmaster and Patrol Leader, Peter Craddock did his level best to keep the troop running, and by dint of sheer enthusiasm he had succeeded.

Mr. Grant had recovered his health when the Sea Scouts’ Jamboree was announced. It was to be a gathering of every troop in the United Kingdom, and was to be held in the spacious land-locked waters of Chichester harbour. There were to be sailing and motor-boat races, rowing and sculling matches, swimming and diving contests, and numerous competitions in which the Sea Scouts were to display their prowess. For those lads who were unable to come round in their own craft a splendid camping site was provided; but, as Peter Craddock remarked, a lot of the fun would be missed if the “Otters” had to hike it by road, and then be compelled to see others display their seamanship, they themselves being unable to compete in friendly rivalry. Without the Puffin, the outlook seemed a bit disappointing.

Then, quite unexpectedly, a chance presented itself. The Scoutmaster heard of a suitable craft offered for sale at a very reasonable figure owing to the present owner finding himself unable to carry out his original intentions.

She was an ex-naval “launch”—a boat propelled either by sail or oars—of very substantial construction and only a few years old. She was forty-two feet in length and diagonal built. That is to say, she had her planks doubled, those forming the outer skin running diagonally on those of the inner skin. This system resulted in great strength of hull, while in addition the edges of the planking were “flush,” otherwise a smooth surface.

Her present owner had intended to convert the launch into a ketch yacht, and had already given her a fairly deep iron keel and had commenced to deck her in and build a cabin. Then he “stuck” owing to lack of funds; and to make the best of his bargain offered the craft as she stood.

“As she stood,” meant that she was lying afloat at Polkebo Creek, a remote inlet of the spacious Cornish harbour of Falmouth, which was a long way from Aberstour.

The Sea Scouts held a council of ways and means. Fortunately they had seven weeks’ holiday. The proposal of a trip to Falmouth to bring back the boat seemed alluring. As for the completion of the conversion job, the lads were all handy with carpenters’ tools: their Troop funds were enough to justify the expenses.

The deal was completed, and the “Otters” lost no time in proceeding to Falmouth and taking over the new craft.

Compared with the Puffin she was a lump of a boat. With her newly fitted iron keel she was “as stiff as a house.” Her original masts, sails, anchor, chain and other gear were stored in a shed adjoining the creek. Timber and other necessary material were readily procurable at Falmouth. Most of these were brought by water in a serviceable 14-foot dinghy that had been included in the bargain.

Work progressed apace. The Sea Scouts stuck it gamely, cheerfully working long hours in the assurance that theirs was a labour of love for that fickle taskmistress the sea. The kindly fisherfolk of Polkebo took great interest in “them young furriners,” giving the amateur shipwrights many useful hints and, what was more, helpful assistance.

There was one exception, however. That was Carlo Bone, generally known as Blueskin, a hulking lout of about thirty and the despair of the district. He was tall, heavily built and, with proper exercise and clean living, ought to have been a formidable figure in the old Cornish pastime of wrestling. Unfortunately he showed no inclination either to work or to play decently. When sheer necessity compelled him to work, he sometimes shipped on board a coaster. The local fisherfolk knew him only too well, and there was never a berth for him in the pilchard fleet. During his many spells of idleness “on the beach,” he spent all the time the Law allows in lounging in public-houses. He was a cunning poacher, but he had never been caught in the act. Rumour had it that he combined the undesirable occupations of thief and smuggler. Already his evil life had left its mark. His face was flabby, and his features were of a purplish hue. Hence his name Blueskin.

Blueskin had a grievance against the Sea Scouts. He had hoped to obtain possession of the ex-Service launch by fair means or, preferably, by foul; but the late owner had refused to part with the boat merely on vague promises to pay, coming as they did from Carlo Bone. From morning to night, except when the “Dog and Gun” was open, Blueskin would lounge about on the quayside and bombard the lads with sarcastic and offensive remarks, attempting in vain to make them abandon their task.

On the afternoon on which this story opens, Mr. Grant and Sea Scout Carline had rowed to the Prince of Wales’s pier at Falmouth to bring off provisions and sundry stores. It was now nearly ten o’clock, and they had not returned. The long Cornish twilight was setting in. In another twenty minutes, night would have fallen. For a wonder, Blueskin’s now familiar and unwelcome figure had not put in an appearance that evening.

“Knock off now, lads!” ordered Brandon. “It’s been a long day, but we simply had to finish that bulkhead. Start the stove, Wilson, my lad. I don’t suppose Mr. Grant will be much longer. He’s got a fair tide up.”

Wilson went below, leaving the Patrol Leader, Craddock, Talbot, and Heavitree to put away the tools and to spread a tarpaulin over the as yet unpainted cabin-top.

At that moment the Sea Scouts noticed Carlo Bone slouching towards the quay. At every few steps he stopped and tugged savagely at a length of rope, the while cursing loudly. At the other end of the rope was a dog, or rather a puppy of about two months.

With the instinctiveness of its kind, the little animal realised that something more unpleasant than its usual treatment at the hands of its brutal owner was in store for it. Vainly it tried to break away, only to be jerked remorselessly onwards.

“The cad!” muttered Craddock. “He’s doing that just to make us lose our tempers. He knows Mr. Grant isn’t here, and there isn’t a policeman to be seen anywhere about.”

Peter Craddock was perfectly right in his surmise. Blueskin was doing his best to pick a quarrel at the expense of the little animal’s life. Deliberately, as far as his unsteady gait permitted, he dragged the puppy to the edge of the quay, where in full view of the Sea Scouts he bent the free end of the rope round a heavy stone.

For a wonder he said nothing; but the ugly leer on his flabby face was enough. He was going to drown the dog before the eyes of the practically helpless Sea Scouts. Nothing short of a display of concerted brute force could stop him. He knew that. There is no law in the country to prevent a man drowning his own dog, provided he does it with reasonable celerity.

The Sea Scouts scrambled on to the quay.

“What are you going to do?” demanded Brandon.

“Gwine ter du? Seems you’ve no eyes, like,” retorted Blueskin thickly. “You’m not th’ ones tu stop I.”

“Will you sell us the dog?” asked the Patrol Leader.

“Noa, I won’t,” was the ungracious reply. “Thet pup ain’t no gude tu noabody. Teared my boots tu pieces, ’e did; so in t’water ’e goes. Get out o’ my way, I tell ye.”

The other Sea Scouts looked helplessly at the Patrol Leader. Brandon gave no sign. In the circumstances things looked hopeless. Blueskin had the whip-hand; or at least he thought he had.

He lifted both the puppy and the stone from the ground. . . . Grinned tauntingly at the lads. . . . Prepared to hurl the terrified animal to its doom.

Stepping behind his chums, Peter Craddock felt for his keen-edged knife. He had the ready knack of opening it with one hand. He did so, and as unostentatiously released it from the swivel.

“Let the brute throw the dog in,” he whispered in Brandon’s ear. “Don’t attempt to stop him.”

The Patrol Leader turned in amazement. One look at his chum’s determined features told him that Peter Craddock had something up his sleeve. Peter had: in a double sense. The keen blade, edge outwards, was nestling against his wrist.

There was a splash. The puppy, weighted by the heavy stone, struck the water six feet below the quay. A second later and Peter Craddock took a magnificent header close to the spot where the little animal had disappeared.

Craddock was a splendid diver. Three years in succession he had won a prize in the plate-diving competition at the Aberstour Regatta, and now he was putting his skill to a practical test.

It was a difficult matter to see under the water in the failing daylight, but before the stone touched bottom, Peter’s left hand caught the fiercely struggling puppy. One quick movement of the keen knife and the deed was done. Still retaining his hold of the released animal, Craddock shot to the surface, and amidst the ringing cheers of his now thoroughly excited chums struck out for the stone steps at the end of the quay.

But Blueskin had yet to be reckoned with.

“That’s my pup,” he declared angrily, planting himself in front of the dripping Sea Scout. “ ’And ’im ower tu me. In ’e goes intu the ditch agen, I tells yu.”

“Excuse me,” protested Peter coolly. “It was yours. When you threw the dog in you threw away all rights to it. It’s ours now. . . . Take charge of it, please, Brandon.”

The Patrol Leader took the shivering pup. The animal, fearing further punishment, struggled frantically to gain the shelter of its rescuer’s protecting arms.

Carlo Bone was flabbergasted. His slowly acting brain was trying to think out the problem. No doubt that interfering “furriner” was right. He was a fool not to stop him from diving to the rescue. There yet remained the question of brute force. He would be more than a match for the whole crowd of “they Sea Scoutses.”

“Gimme that dawg!” he shouted, striding towards the Patrol Leader.

Peter barred his way. Blueskin aimed a vicious blow at Craddock’s chest. The Sea Scout, in successfully evading the massive fist, stepped backwards. As he did so his rubber-soled shoes slithered on the stones, for no footgear is proof against the slippery quays of the West Country where fish have just been landed. He fell. The bully promptly dealt him a kick with his heavy sea-boot.

There is a limit to human endurance, even to that of a well-disciplined patrol of Scouts. In an instant Fred Heavitree planted himself between Blueskin and the prostrate Craddock.

Heavitree was the latest recruit to the “Otters.” He was a tall, slim youth of a somewhat retiring disposition, keen at his work and yet never before displaying any signs of unusual strength and activity. His chums were about to get one of life’s surprises; so was Blueskin.

“Keep back, you fellows,” cautioned Heavitree in a low yet compelling tone.

The bully, thinking he had an easy task, let out a terrific left. Had it reached its objective, Heavitree would have been lifted clean off his feet. The Sea Scout was unable to spring back out of harm’s way, because Craddock was still on the ground. Instead, without moving his feet, he inclined his body from the waist.

Blueskin’s fist met nothing more resisting than air. Before he could recover his balance, the Sea Scout had him properly. A tremendous thud as Heavitree’s left caught the bully fairly between the eyes was almost simultaneously followed by a heavy right straight to the solar plexus.

Heavitree stood his ground, guarding to meet a counter-attack. It was a judicious but unnecessary precaution, for Carlo Bone, his arms whirling like windmills, staggered backwards for three or four yards, and collapsed in a heap upon the rough pavement.

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.

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.”