The Sea Scouts crowded into their partly finished cabin. The lamp had been lighted; a large iron kettle was on the stove. Compared with the comfortable cabin of the little _Puffin_, the place looked barn-like and cheerless. It had yet to be made into a really habitable cabin, but even now it was rain-proof and afforded the lads a shelter even if it were a case of “sleeping rough.” “Rummy looking little beast, what?” commented Brandon, pausing in the act of drying the puppy’s coat to study the general appearance of the rescued animal. Even for a puppy its hair was long, its ears drooping. Neck, chest and forefeet were white, as was a blaze extending almost to the tip of its jet-black nose. The rest of the fur was of a dark grey hue. “It’s our mascot, anyway,” declared Wilson. “My word, Peter; you were pretty smart in diving after it.” “Was I?” rejoined Craddock in a muffled tone as he struggled into a dry jersey. “I hadn’t any idea how long I was under. It was just luck grabbing the pup as I did.” “What shall we call it?” enquired Symington. “That’s for Peter to say,” replied Brandon. “He saved the pup. . . . Hello! Here’s the dinghy alongside.” “Sorry I’m late, lads!” exclaimed Mr. Grant, as he stepped into the cabin, blinking as he did so at the strong light compared to the darkness without. “We’ve had rather an interesting yarn with Scoutmaster Pendennis, haven’t we, Carline? His Sea Scouts are going to the Jamboree, too; so we’ll—Hello! What’s that?” “Our mascot, sir,” replied Brandon, holding out the pup for inspection. “Where did you get it from?” asked Mr. Grant. “It was that chap Carlo Bone’s, sir,” was the somewhat vague reply. The Scoutmaster showed no great enthusiasm over the announcement. He did not like the idea of the lads accepting any favours from a surly good-for-nothing rascal of that type. “Did he give it you?” he asked. “No, sir,” replied the Patrol Leader. “He threw the pup into the creek, and Peter fetched it out. Then——” “Suppose you tell the yarn from the beginning, Brandon,” said Mr. Grant quietly. “This sounds rather interesting.” Frank Brandon did so. The Scoutmaster listened without making any comment until the story was completed. “It served Blueskin right,” he remarked. “I’m sorry we’ve had a row, but he evidently asked for it. We’ll have to be careful when he’s about. I didn’t know, you were a budding pugilist, Heavitree. Where did you learn to use your fists?” “At school, sir. We were taught boxing. I was supposed to be rather good at it; only one day I hit a fellow rather hard. It was a sparring match. I really didn’t mean to hurt him, but I did. After that I felt afraid of myself and dropped boxing.” “We’ve won our mascot, haven’t we, sir?” enquired Brandon. Mr. Grant assented. “We were going to give it a name when you came back, sir,” said Peter. “Carry on, then,” prompted the Scoutmaster. “What do you suggest?” “Bruin, sir; it’s like a teddy bear.”