“What are you going to do?” demanded Brandon.
“Gwine ter du? Seems you’ve no eyes, like,” retorted Blueskin thickly. “You’m not th’ ones tu stop I.”
“Will you sell us the dog?” asked the Patrol Leader.
“Noa, I won’t,” was the ungracious reply. “Thet pup ain’t no gude tu noabody. Teared my boots tu pieces, ’e did; so in t’water ’e goes. Get out o’ my way, I tell ye.”
The other Sea Scouts looked helplessly at the Patrol Leader. Brandon gave no sign. In the circumstances things looked hopeless. Blueskin had the whip-hand; or at least he thought he had.
He lifted both the puppy and the stone from the ground. . . . Grinned tauntingly at the lads. . . . Prepared to hurl the terrified animal to its doom.
Stepping behind his chums, Peter Craddock felt for his keen-edged knife. He had the ready knack of opening it with one hand. He did so, and as unostentatiously released it from the swivel.
“Let the brute throw the dog in,” he whispered in Brandon’s ear. “Don’t attempt to stop him.”
The Patrol Leader turned in amazement. One look at his chum’s determined features told him that Peter Craddock had something up his sleeve. Peter had: in a double sense. The keen blade, edge outwards, was nestling against his wrist.
There was a splash. The puppy, weighted by the heavy stone, struck the water six feet below the quay. A second later and Peter Craddock took a magnificent header close to the spot where the little animal had disappeared.