“Can any one of you men milk?” said Lieutenant Brough, a little plump-looking man, of about five and thirty, as he stood in naval uniform staring at the new addition to His Majesty’s cutter White Hawk, a well-fed dun cow, which stood steadily swinging her long tail to and fro, where she was tethered to the bulwarks, after vainly trying to make a meal off the well holystoned deck.
There was no reply, the men grinning one at the other, on hearing so novel a question. “Do you men mean to say that not one amongst you can milk?” cried the lieutenant.
No one had spoken; but now, in a half-shrinking foolish way, Dick pulled his forelock, and made a kick out behind.
“You can?” cried the lieutenant, “that’s right; get a bucket and milk her. I’ll have some for breakfast.”
“Didn’t say as I could milk, sir,” said Dick. “Seen ’em milk, though, down in Linkyshire, and know how it’s done.”
“Then, of course, you can do it,” said the lieutenant shortly; “look sharp!”
The men grinned, and Dirty Dick by no means looked sharp, but exceedingly blunt and foolish as he shuffled along the deck, provided himself with a bucket, and then approached the cow, which had suddenly began chewing the cud.
“Look at her, mate,” said one of the sailors.
“What for?” said the man addressed.
“Some one’s been giving her a quid o’ bacca.”