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.
CHAPTER III
An All-Night Watch
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.