Blueskin’s fist met nothing more resisting than air. Before he could recover his balance, the Sea Scout had him properly. A tremendous thud as Heavitree’s left caught the bully fairly between the eyes was almost simultaneously followed by a heavy right straight to the _solar plexus_. Heavitree stood his ground, guarding to meet a counter-attack. It was a judicious but unnecessary precaution, for Carlo Bone, his arms whirling like windmills, staggered backwards for three or four yards, and collapsed in a heap upon the rough pavement. CHAPTER II The Mascot For some moments the Sea Scouts remained dumbfounded at their chum’s prowess. Heavitree, by far the least perturbed, stood silently regarding the prostrate form of his late antagonist. “You’ve killed him, Fred,” exclaimed Wilson. “Not I,” replied Heavitree. “He’ll be all right in ten minutes or so, ’cept perhaps for a bad headache. Did he give you much of a hack, Peter?” “He tried to,” said Craddock, as he examined his shin. The skin had been slightly lacerated and was bleeding a little. The moisture draining from the Sea Scout’s saturated shorts and mingling with the crimson fluid made the abrasion look far worse than it actually was. “He tried to; but his feet sort of side-slipped. My word, Fred! That was a knock-out blow. Where did you learn that?” Before the specialist in the art of “knocking out” could reply, a number of fisherfolk and villagers came hurrying to the quay. One of the number had seen Blueskin floored, and had communicated the news to the frequenters of the “Dog and Gun,” with the result that “closing time” was anticipated for the first time in the annals of that ancient inn to the extent of nearly three minutes. “Sakes, if ’tisn’t Blueskin!” exclaimed a bearded fisherman. “Laid out prapper-like, tu. ’Ave ye been hittin’ he ower head with a hammer?” “No,” replied Brandon. “He went for one of us: kicked him. So Heavitree knocked him down.” “What with?” asked the astonished Cornishman. “His fist. It was a fair blow,” declared the Patrol Leader. “Did he now? Us ’ud think ’twould take more’n a fist tu settle the loikes of ’e. We’m right glad, we’m is; but harkee—Blueskin’s a twi’ble dangerous man to fall foul wi’. He’ll get his own back, loike, e’en if he’s tu wait ten year. Isn’t that so, friends?” The other villagers nodded their heads. “We’ll look out, then,” rejoined Brandon. “Well, there’s nothing more to be done, I take it. Come on, Peter, and change your gear.” With the rescued puppy nestling in the Patrol Leader’s arms the Sea Scouts returned on board, leaving the Polkebo folk to carry the still unconscious form of their unpopular fellow-villager to the ramshackle and sordid cottage which he called his home.