While this conversation was going on Johnson was plying his needle industriously, and under his hand Sam Hickey's foot was undergoing a great change. Little by little the outline of a pig's foot was appearing. The pig's foot was done in red, while the toe nails of the foot were in blue.
"There; you can let the broncho up now," announced Johnson, after putting the final touches to his artistic achievement.
The sailors piled off, while one of their number released the rope that held the foot. Sam struggled to a sitting posture, much the worse for wear, his hair standing up, his clothes soiled and disordered. But it was the foot that attracted his attention. He surveyed it dubiously, then his eyes wandered about the circle of laughing faces.
Sam grinned a sheepish grin.
"Fellows, you've insulted an officer and a gentleman, and I've got to get even with you—no; I'll have you before the mast, every one of you, so——"
All hands began grunting in imitation of a herd of pigs.
"I see I am not the only pig in the sty, after all," announced Seaman Hickey cuttingly, as he calmly began pulling on his shoe over the sore foot.