A low whispered growl came in reply, a sound that was as full of fight as if it had been uttered by some fierce beast.
“That will do then,” said the first-mate. “You slip up there first, Billy Widgeon, and you others go next. Stop: Billy, send down a table-cloth.”
“Table-cloth, sir?”
“Yes, to tie the dog in; we mustn’t leave him.”
Widgeon went up, his mates followed one by one, for the cotton rope stood the strain, and then a big white table-cloth was dropped into the boat.
“Now, Bruff, my lad, you’ve got to go up like a bundle. Will you go quietly, or are you going to betray us?”
The dog made no resistance, but allowed himself to be stowed in the middle of the cloth, which was tied up bundle-wise, the end of the sheet-rope was attached, a signal made, and the animal drawn up and in at the cabin-window without his uttering a sound.
A minute more and the rope came down.
“Can you bear it round you, my lad?” whispered Gregory to Morgan.
“I’ll bear anything,” was the calm reply; and he did not wince as the rope was secured about his chest. Then a signal was given, and he was drawn up, to be dragged in at the cabin-window with his wound bleeding again and he insensible.