Our persevering friend, being rather provoked at the punishment of his young flock, now set to work to discover the real fate of Shakings. It soon occurred to him, that if the dog had really been made away with, as he shrewdly suspected, the butcher, in all probability, must have had a hand in his murder; accordingly, he sent for the man in the evening, when the following dialogue took place:—
“Well, butcher, will you have a glass of grog to-night?”
“Thank you, sir, thank you. Here’s your honour’s health!” said the other, after smoothing down his hair, and pulling an immense quid of tobacco out of his mouth.
Old Daddy observed the peculiar relish with which the butcher took his glass; and mixing another, a good deal more potent, placed it before the fellow, and continued the conversation in these words:
“I tell you what it is, Mr. Butcher—you are as humane a man as any in the ship, I dare say; but, if required, you know well, that you must do your duty, whether it is upon sheep or hogs?”
“Surely, sir.”
“Or upon dogs, either?” suddenly asked the inquisitor.
“I don’t know about that,” stammered the butcher, quite taken by surprise, and thrown all aback.
“Well—well,” said Daddy, “here’s another glass for you—a stiff north-wester. Come! tell us all about it now. How did you get rid of the dog?—of Shakings, I mean?”
“Why, sir,” said the peaching rogue, “I put him in a bag—a bread bag, sir.”