A little later smoke issued from the tiny cowl over the fo'c'sle and
rolled in a little pungent cloud to the Kentish shore. Then a delicious
odour of frying steak rose from below, and fell like healing balm upon
the susceptible nostrils of the skipper as he stood at the helm.
"Is Mrs. Bunker getting up?" inquired the mate, as he emerged from the
fo'c'sle and walked aft.
"I believe so," said the skipper. "There's movements below."
"'Cos the steak's ready and waiting," said the mate. "I've put it on a
dish in front of the fire."
"Ay, ay!" said the skipper.
The mate lit his pipe and sat down on the hatchway, slowly smoking. He
removed it a couple of minutes later, to stare in bewilderment at the
unwonted behaviour of the dog, which came up to the captain and
affectionately licked his hands.
"He's took quite a fancy to me," said the delighted man.
"Love me love my dog," quoted Bill waggishly, as he strolled forward
again.
The skipper was fondly punching the dog, which was now on its back with
its four legs in the air, when he heard a terrible cry from the
fo'c'sle, and the mate came rushing wildly on deck.
"Where's that -------- dog?" he cried.
"Don't you talk like that aboard my ship. Where's your manners?" cried
the skipper hotly.
Pages:
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283