“H’m!” exclaimed Mr. Grant dubiously. “It’s hardly the correct thing to call a female dog by a masculine name. You’d better start on another tack. Well, that’s a matter for you fellows to discuss. How have you been getting on?” “We’ve finished the bulkhead to your cabin,” announced Peter. “The cabin-top has had the first coat of paint ready for the canvas to be stretched. Wilson and Talbot have been fitting the bunks in the main cabin, so we won’t have to sleep on the floor in future.” “That’s good!” said Mr. Grant encouragingly. “To-morrow if it’s fine we’ll polish off that cabin-top. We ought to have the masts stepped, and the standing rigging set up by the end of the week. That reminds me: Scoutmaster Pendennis is taking a patrol to the Jamboree in the _Merlin_. We’ll be cruising in company unless the _Merlin_ is too smart for us. I hope our craft will prove to be fairly fast—enough to keep up with her. Talking about names: we haven’t given our boat a name yet.” “How would _Kestrel_ do, sir?” suggested Brandon. “A merlin is a sort of hawk, and so is a kestrel.” “Good idea!” agreed Mr. Grant. “Now, you fellows: supper and bed. We’ve another long day’s work in front of us to-morrow. I don’t fancy Mr. Carlo Bone will favour us with his undesirable attendance to-night.” In ordinary circumstances the Sea Scouts slept like logs. Already they were quite hardened to lying on bare boards. To-night for the first time since their arrival at Polkebo Creek, they were sleeping either on bunks extending the whole length and both sides of the main saloon or in hammocks slung from the beams. Yet, in spite of the great improvement in comfort, they showed no inclination for repose. They chattered, discussing a suitable name for their mascot and going over the events of that memorable evening until Mr. Grant’s voice, coming from the adjoining cabin, bade them keep quiet. After that the silence was broken only by the whimpering of the puppy. She, too, was doubtless going through the terrifying time when she was struggling under water weighted down by a stone. It was not until Peter Craddock put his arm over the side of his bunk and stroked the now soft, silky hair that the little animal quieted down. Licking the hand of her rescuer, she gave a little sigh of gratification and confidence and dropped into a sound slumber. Bodily tired though he was, Peter simply could not sleep. He lay thinking and thinking—which is a jolly bad symptom in a healthy youth. He was puzzling his brains to decide upon a suitable name for the _Kestrel’s_ mascot. Presently he realised that fine rain was falling on the tarpaulin placed over the uncompleted cabin-top. It was a strange sort of rain—falling intermittently. It smelt strange, too. “Petrol!” thought the lad. He sniffed suspiciously. This surmise was confirmed. The interior of the cabin was reeking with the fumes of that highly inflammable spirit. In a flash the Sea Scout’s mind was alert.