"To be devoured by lions," said the Paymaster calmly, with an eye on the sofa where Garm, the bull-terrier, sprawled as usual.
"That's right," said the First Lieutenant, "so it is: devoured of lions."
The next moment the Doctor was tripped up into the depths of the sofa, the bull-terrier, thus rudely awakened from slumber, dumped on top of him, and his struggles stifled by the bodies of the Paymaster and First Lieutenant. "Eat him, Garm—Hi! good beastie! Chew his nose, lick his collar…!"
The great bull-terrier, accustomed to being the instrument of such summary execution, entered into the game with zest, and sprawling across the Surgeon's chest with one massive paw on his face, nuzzled and slavered in an abandonment of affectionate gusto.
"Oh!—oh!—oh!—pah!—phew!" The victim writhed and spluttered protests.
"Dry up—Garm, you great donkey! Piff!—you're—smothering—me—beast!
Ugh! my collar—clean—no offence—Jimmy, I 'pologise—lemme get up …
Faugh!"
In the midst of the uproar the door opened and the Midshipman of the
Watch appeared.
"Mr. Thorogood, sir," he called. "Someone to see you."
The group on the sofa broke up. The Surgeon sat up panting and wiping his face. The dog jumped to the deck and accompanied Thorogood across to the door, wagging a friendly tail.
Sir William Thorogood, hat in hand, with his cloak over his arm, entered the ante-room. His eyeglass fell from his eye.
"Hullo, Uncle Bill," exclaimed his nephew. "You're early—nice and early—we've just started training for the Regatta and we're straffing the coxswain by way of a start! Er—Staff Surgeon Tucker, Sir William Thorogood."