In their task of getting the boat ready for sea the Scouts received no human aid, but they were "assisted" by a big curly-haired dog, with a white patch on his chest, who answered to the name of Bruin.
Twelve months before, Bruin, then a mere pup, had been rescued by the Sea Scouts of the Olivette when he was in dire peril on the Buxey Sands in the Thames estuary. He was now a powerful, wonderfully good-tempered beast, standing nearly thirty inches high, and combining the sagacity of a full-grown dog with the high spirits of a puppy. Nominally Peter's dog, Bruin was the recognized mascot of the Olivette's crew. He had adopted them all. He obeyed them and no one else. He was friendly with most human beings with whom he came in contact, but he took it for granted that his destiny was indissolubly associated with the blue-jerseyed, white-capped lads who formed the 1st Milford Sea Scouts.
During the present operations Bruin's activities were mainly concerned with trotting around with paint-brushes and tools. Somewhere in the back of his doggie brain he had the idea that these articles were a hindrance to his youthful masters, since they were so busy working with them that they couldn't go to sea. Consequently, Bruin did his best to help things on by running away with paintbrushes and tools. Whenever anything was missing, Bruin was dubbed the culprit. In nine cases out of ten the Sea Scouts were right, and by dint of a little tracking they discovered the dog's cache—a hole in a cabbage-patch in the coastguards' garden.
"She looks A1," exclaimed Dick Roche, backing-up the Patrol Leader's unspoken satisfaction. "You've put that top coat on splendidly, Peter."
"Not so dusty," admitted the Patrol Leader modestly. "The line's a bit wonky under the starboard quarter. That was when Bruin started jazzing on my back; but the compo will square that off all right. How are you getting on?"
"Finished," declared the motor expert. "The magneto's timed just a trifle in advance. I fancy she'll do better like that."
"If she does as well as she did before, I won't complain," rejoined Peter. "Yes, I've made a good job of those top-sides—a thundering good job. Now, lads, we'll leave her at that. The paint will be set hard by to-morrow, if it doesn't rain."
"I don't fancy it will," said Hepburn. "The glass is high and steady. What's the next job, Peter?"
"Final coat of varnish on the dinghy," announced the Patrol Leader. "Then, the last thing to-night, we'll grease the ways. That will be enough for one day's work, I fancy."
"We'll miss you when you go, Peter, old thing," remarked Flemming.