Work progressed apace. The Sea Scouts stuck it gamely, cheerfully working long hours in the assurance that theirs was a labour of love for that fickle taskmistress the sea. The kindly fisherfolk of Polkebo took great interest in “them young furriners,” giving the amateur shipwrights many useful hints and, what was more, helpful assistance. There was one exception, however. That was Carlo Bone, generally known as Blueskin, a hulking lout of about thirty and the despair of the district. He was tall, heavily built and, with proper exercise and clean living, ought to have been a formidable figure in the old Cornish pastime of wrestling. Unfortunately he showed no inclination either to work or to play decently. When sheer necessity compelled him to work, he sometimes shipped on board a coaster. The local fisherfolk knew him only too well, and there was never a berth for him in the pilchard fleet. During his many spells of idleness “on the beach,” he spent all the time the Law allows in lounging in public-houses. He was a cunning poacher, but he had never been caught in the act. Rumour had it that he combined the undesirable occupations of thief and smuggler. Already his evil life had left its mark. His face was flabby, and his features were of a purplish hue. Hence his name Blueskin. Blueskin had a grievance against the Sea Scouts. He had hoped to obtain possession of the ex-Service launch by fair means or, preferably, by foul; but the late owner had refused to part with the boat merely on vague promises to pay, coming as they did from Carlo Bone. From morning to night, except when the “Dog and Gun” was open, Blueskin would lounge about on the quayside and bombard the lads with sarcastic and offensive remarks, attempting in vain to make them abandon their task. On the afternoon on which this story opens, Mr. Grant and Sea Scout Carline had rowed to the Prince of Wales’s pier at Falmouth to bring off provisions and sundry stores. It was now nearly ten o’clock, and they had not returned. The long Cornish twilight was setting in. In another twenty minutes, night would have fallen. For a wonder, Blueskin’s now familiar and unwelcome figure had not put in an appearance that evening. “Knock off now, lads!” ordered Brandon. “It’s been a long day, but we simply had to finish that bulkhead. Start the stove, Wilson, my lad. I don’t suppose Mr. Grant will be much longer. He’s got a fair tide up.” Wilson went below, leaving the Patrol Leader, Craddock, Talbot, and Heavitree to put away the tools and to spread a tarpaulin over the as yet unpainted cabin-top. At that moment the Sea Scouts noticed Carlo Bone slouching towards the quay. At every few steps he stopped and tugged savagely at a length of rope, the while cursing loudly. At the other end of the rope was a dog, or rather a puppy of about two months.