“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.