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.