“Got him safe?” said Billy Widgeon, as he swung by one hand as easily as would a monkey, and unconsciously imitating one of these active little creatures in the pose of his head.
“Yes; he sha’n’t hurt you now,” cried Mark.
“’Cause dogs’ bites don’t come in one’s pay, eh, cap’n?”
“The dog’s all right now, Widgeon,” said the captain. “Here, Mark, shut him in the parlour.”
“All right, father! but he won’t stir now.”
“Come down, my lad,” said the captain. “You can climb over the balustrade.”
“Bee-low!” cried the sailor in a gruff, sing-song tone, and loosening his hold he dropped lightly on to the oil-cloth within a couple of yards of the dog.
Bruff’s head was pressed close down to the floor, but he showed his teeth and uttered a growl like a lilliputian peal of thunder.
“Quiet!” cried Mark, as Billy Widgeon struck an attitude with his fists doubled, ready for attack or defence.
“Lor’, if you was aboard our ship, wouldn’t I heave you overboard fust chance!” cried the sailor.