Metropolitan Police launches—was brought close alongside the rescuer and the rescued. The bowman, finding the lad within arm's length, dropped his boathook, and leaning over the gunwale, grasped Atherton by the shoulder. The coxswain came to his aid, and the victim of the outrage was hauled into safety.

CHAPTER III

THE PATROL LEADER'S DILEMMA

Shivering under the stern canopy of the launch, Scout Atherton assisted the bowman in his work of restoring the half-drowned man to life. Before the craft reached Charing Cross Pier, the policeman was able to announce that there was yet hope.

Feeling dizzy and numbed Atherton stepped ashore.

"Can I help, sir?" he asked.

"You'd better run off home and get out of those wet clothes," replied the coxswain, a sergeant of police. "Do you feel equal to it, or shall we get you a cab?"

"I'm all right, I think," replied Atherton.

"Let's have your name and address," continued the sergeant, pulling out his notebook. "You're a plucky youngster, that you are."

Atherton was not at all keen on giving the particulars. Publicity was the thing he wished to avoid. He had done a good turn, and, Scout-like, he wanted, now that he could render no further assistance, to modestly retire from the scene.

His desire was gratified, for at that moment a doctor, two reporters and an ambulance man came hurrying down the incline leading to the pier. The doctor turned his attention to the still unconscious man, while the Pressmen tackled the sergeant in a most business-like manner.

Atherton seized the opportunity and slipped off.

The water was still dripping steadily from his things. He started into a run, partly to restore his numbed circulation and partly to get back to the spot where he had taken his venturesome dive, for he remembered that he had left his boots and coat on the bridge. By the time he reached the top of the three flights of stairs leading from the Embankment to the bridge his watery tracks were quite insignificant, and of the few people hurrying on their way home none noticed the hatless, coatless and bootless youth.

The crowd of curious spectators had dispersed. A rumour that the water police had picked up the body of the victim had resulted in a wild stampede along the Embankment. Atherton made his way to the place where he had dropped into the river. His coat and boots had vanished.

"I'm in a pretty fine mess!" he exclaimed, ruefully. "Dirty trick, sneaking a fellow's clothes, though. I wonder what the Head will say when I turn up late."

Atherton knew that if he journeyed to King's Cross otherwise than on foot he would be exposing himself to a great risk by taking cold, so adopting the "Scout's pace"—alternately walking and running twenty paces—he found himself at the Great Northern metropolitan station in very quick time.

Upon arriving at Collingwood College a slice of good luck awaited him. Jellyboy, the porter, was standing on the kerb beckoning frantically to a newsboy. The outer door was open, and the Scout slipped in unobserved.

Under ordinary circumstances he would have gone straight to his house master, but the desire to keep his good turn a secret caused him to make straight for the dormitory. Here he changed, placing his still damp clothes under his bed till he could find an opportunity of drying them.

"Prep." was over. Harrison, the junior science master had been in charge, and had not noticed Atherton's absence. The Scouts were assembling for the evening's instruction, and, not without curious glances from his chums, the Leader of the "Otters" joined them.

Somehow Atherton did not feel quite satisfied with himself. He began to realise that by avoiding publicity he had placed himself in a false position. By promptly giving the police a detailed description of the two assailants, the arrest of the culprits might have been speedily effected. Besides, he did not relish the stealthy tactics he had to adopt in returning to the College without being detected.

"I'll see Mr Trematon and tell him all about it," he declared. "It seems to me that I've made a pretty mess of things, so here goes."

"Well, Atherton, what do you want?" basked the Scoutmaster, as the Leader went up to him and saluted. "A suggestion for the camp, eh?"

"No, sir," replied Atherton. "I'm in a difficulty and want advice. Can I speak to you in the store-room, sir?"

"Certainly," assented Mr Trematon kindly. "Now, Atherton, what is it that's worrying you?"

The Scout told the story of his adventure, omitting nothing, although he put the account of his part of the rescue in as brief a form as possible.

"You had better come with me to the Head," said Mr Trematon, when Atherton had finished. "I think I can account for your reticence, and no doubt Mr Kane will see things in a similar light."

"Whatever possessed you to go without giving your name and address, Atherton?" asked the Rev. Septimus. "Don't you see you are putting obstacles in the way of the police?"

"I have thought of that since, sir," replied Atherton; "but at the time all I wanted was to make myself scarce."

"Make yourself scarce!" repeated the Head, reprovingly. "That is hardly the right way to express yourself:"

"Well, sir, you see I did not want any reward for my good turn."

"What a strange idea," remarked the Rev. Septimus Kane to his assistant.

"One of the principles of Scout law, sir; to do a brave action with the prime motive of self-advertisement is deprecated by all true Scouts."

"Yet I notice names of Scout heroes frequently figure in the Press," added the Head, musingly.

"Possibly not with their consent, sir."

"There are volumes in the meaning of the word 'possibly,' Mr Trematon. However, the best thing you can do is to take Atherton over to the police-station. Ask that his identity may be concealed if practicable. They will telephone the description of the two assailants to the other stations, and in that way a tardy assistance may be rendered to the Force. Don't wait, it is late already."

"Very good sir. Do you want me——"

Mr Trematon's words were interrupted by a sharp knock at the study door, and in response to the Head's invitation Jellyboy, the porter, entered, followed by a stalwart constable.

"Good evening, sir," exclaimed the policeman, saluting. "I've been sent to make a few enquiries, sir; can I speak to you in private?"

"I do not think privacy is desirable, constable," replied the Rev. Septimus, who at times possessed a keen intuition. "You have called with reference to that case of attempted murder on Hungerford Bridge."

"You're right, sir," said the astonished policeman. "You'll excuse me, sir, but might I ask how you know?"

"Easily explained, constable. You have a parcel under your arm. It has been crushed. The brown paper covering has burst. I can see a portion of the contents: a boy's cap with the badge of Collingwood College. Since one of my pupils—this lad, as a matter of fact—has arrived without a cap, coat or boots, and has reported to me that he jumped into the Thames after a gentleman who was thrown over the bridge by a couple of roughs, it naturally follows that I can guess the nature of your errand."

"You are quite right, sir," said the constable, admiringly.

"I frequently am," rejoined the Head, complacently. "But to return to the point: has the identity of the victim been established?"

"Yes, sir, the gentleman is Sir Silas Gwinnear. You might have heard of him, sir."

Leslie Trematon gave an exclamation of surprise. Atherton, equally astonished, could hardly realise the news. It seemed like a dream. Only a few days previously Sir Silas had written expressing his opinion of the Scout movement in emphatic terms of disapproval, and now, by the irony of fate, he owed his life to a Scout's