With the instinctiveness of its kind, the little animal realised that something more unpleasant than its usual treatment at the hands of its brutal owner was in store for it. Vainly it tried to break away, only to be jerked remorselessly onwards. “The cad!” muttered Craddock. “He’s doing that just to make us lose our tempers. He knows Mr. Grant isn’t here, and there isn’t a policeman to be seen anywhere about.” Peter Craddock was perfectly right in his surmise. Blueskin was doing his best to pick a quarrel at the expense of the little animal’s life. Deliberately, as far as his unsteady gait permitted, he dragged the puppy to the edge of the quay, where in full view of the Sea Scouts he bent the free end of the rope round a heavy stone. For a wonder he said nothing; but the ugly leer on his flabby face was enough. He was going to drown the dog before the eyes of the practically helpless Sea Scouts. Nothing short of a display of concerted brute force could stop him. He knew that. There is no law in the country to prevent a man drowning his own dog, provided he does it with reasonable celerity. The Sea Scouts scrambled on to the quay. “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. Craddock was a splendid diver. Three years in succession he had won a prize in the plate-diving competition at the Aberstour Regatta, and now he was putting his skill to a practical test.