“No, sir, thanks.”
“Help yourself, my lad. Rum un, aren’t I?”
“You don’t expect me to say what I think, do you?” said Mark smiling.
“One to you, boy,” said the mate, nodding; and this time there was a vestige of a smile on his plain face. “Here, ugly, try that.”
This was the outside of a big piece of gristly steak which the mate cut off, and held toward the dog, who approached slowly and as if in doubt, but ended by taking it.
“Yah! What are you sniffing at? Think there was mustard on it? Big friends, I suppose, you and him?”
“Yes, sir, we’re capital friends.”
“Humph! Better make friends with a good lad of your age. I hate dogs. What are you laughing at?”
“You, sir.”
“Eh? Oh! I see!” paid the mate grimly. “I do, though, all the same. Don’t you believe it?”