"Found a dog on the sands; is it yours?" signalled Woodleigh.
"No," was the reply. "We saw it thrown overboard from a bawley two hours ago. Couldn't get to it."
"Thank you," replied the Sea Scout signaller. "Do you know name or number of bawley?"
"No," was the brief answer. "No name or number visible."
The Rosalie hauled down her bunting, and, starboarding helm, shaped a course for the still-distant Kentish shore.
Those of the crew not on duty were discussing the mystery of the pup, and advancing wondrous theories as to how the little animal came to be hove overboard.
Had it incurred the wrath of the short-tempered skipper of the fishing-boat, or had the cook taken summary vengeance upon the little animal? Or had it fallen overboard unobserved by any of the crew?
"We'll make further inquiries later," decided Mr. Armitage. "I don't fancy, however, that he will be claimed, especially if someone threw him overboard deliberately. I suppose you want him, Peter?"
"I'd like to have him, sir—awfully much," replied the Patrol-leader. "But we all had a hand at rescuing him. Couldn't he belong to the Troop?"
"Right-o! That's the sort!" exclaimed Woodleigh and Hepburn.