The poor animal was very ill, but his ludicrous aspect and caricature-like imitation of sick humanity excited laughter among passengers and men. He used to lie perfectly still, with his face contracted into comical wrinkles; but his eyes were bright and always on the move, while, if Bruff were away from his side for five minutes, he would begin to chatter uneasily, and then howl till the dog returned, to take hold of his arm, and pretend to bite him, ending by lying down and watching him with half-closed eyes.
After a while Bruff would utter a remonstrant growl, for Jack would set to work trying to solve the problem why the dog’s curly coat would not lie down smooth and straight; and in his efforts to produce that smoothness that he was accustomed to see upon his own skin, he sometimes tugged vigorously enough to cause pain.
Mark was watching the pair one day, when Billy Widgeon came up.
“Why don’t he get better?” said Mark. “He ought to be all right by now.”
Billy Widgeon looked at the monkey, which seemed to be watching them both intently, and mysteriously drew Mark aside.
“That there settles it, Mr Mark, sir,” he said.
“Settles what?”
“’Bout his being so ill, sir. I see it all just then in his wicked old eyes.”
“I don’t understand you, Billy.”
“Don’t you? He’s a-gammoning on us, sir.”