Jerry went up accordingly. “Mr Prose is not well, sir—he has a sort of lock-jaw.”
“I wish to God you had the same complaint, sir,” replied the first-lieutenant, who owed him one. “Macallan, is Mr Prose ill?”
“Not that I know of; he has not applied to me. I’ll go down and see him before I go on shore.”
Macallan came up laughing, but he recovered his seriousness before Bully perceived it.
“Well, doctor?”
“Mr Prose is certainly not very fit to come on deck in his present state,” said Macallan, who then descended the side, and the boat, which had been waiting for him, shoved off. But, this time, Jerry was caught in his own trap.
“Mr J—, where is the dog’s collar?—it must be oiled and cleaned,” said the first-lieutenant.
“Shall I give it to the armourer, sir?” replied Jerry.
“No, bring it up to me.”
Jerry went down, and returned in a few minutes. “I cannot find it, sir; I left it in the berth when I came on deck.”