“Where is it, then?” cried the captain angrily.
“That’s just what I want to know, sir.”
“Bah! it’s lost.”
“No, sir, it arn’t lost; I were too careful for that, and—theer, I telled you so. I remember now. Mr Gregory says, says he, ‘you, Billy Widgeon,’ he says, ‘you’ve got to take great care of that letter,’ he says; and ‘all right, sir,’ I says, ‘I just will,’ and I put it wheer I thought it would be safest, and here it is.”
As he spoke, grinning broadly the while, he slipped off one of his shoes, stooped and picked it up, and drew out the letter all warm and crinkled up with the pressure.
“It’s all right, sir,” he said, smoothing and patting the letter, and handing it to his captain, before balancing himself on one leg to replace his shoe.
“Why didn’t you carry it in your pocket, man?” said the captain angrily, and he tore open the letter and began to read.
“I say, youngster,” whispered the sailor, whom the dog was still slowly going round and smelling suspiciously, “will that there chap bite?”
“Bite! No,” replied Mark. “Here, lie down, Bruff!”
The dog obeyed, laying his head upon his forepaws and blinking at the visitor, whom he watched intently as if he were in doubt about his character.