“Right, sir,” said the sailor, giving his head a duck and his right leg another kick out—courtesies called forth by the well-furnished room and the soft carpet, for on the bare deck of the ship he put off his manners with his shore-going clothes. “Day, sir. Day, youngster. Day, shipmet.”
This last was intended for the dog; but, a few moments before, Bruff had slowly risen, crossed the room, and drawn the door open by inserting one paw in the crack, and then passed through.
“Why, he arn’t there!” said Billy Widgeon after a glance round. “My sarvice to him all the same,” he added, and went out.
The door had hardly closed when there was the sound of a rush, a roar, the fall of a chair, a crash of china, and a stentorian “Ahoy!”
“I shall have to kill that dog,” cried the captain, as he and Mark rushed into the hall, where Bruff was barking and growling savagely.
“Down, Bruff!” shouted Mark, seizing the dog by the collar and enforcing his order by pressing his head down upon the oil-cloth, and setting one knee upon his side. “Why, where’s—”
Mark did not finish, but burst into a roar of laughter, in which his father joined, as they both gazed up at the little sailor.
Explanation of the state of affairs was not needed, for matters spoke for themselves.
It was evident that Bruff had, for some reason, made a rush at Billy Widgeon, who had leaped upon a hall chair, from thence upon the table, upsetting the chair in his spring. From the table he had leaped to the top of a great cabinet, knocking down a handsome Indian jar, which was shattered to fragments on the oil-cloth; and from the cabinet springing to the balusters of the first-floor landing of the staircase.
There he hung, swinging by first one hand, then by the other, so as to get a good look down at his assailant, who was barking at him furiously as Mark rushed out; but Bruff had not the brains to see that if he rushed up stairs he could renew his attack.