“No,” replied Mark smiling; “and Bruff does not believe it either.”
For after the mate had given the dog a couple of pieces of steak, Bruff had stopped by him and laid the heavy head upon his knee to patiently wait for further consignments of cargo, which, however, did not come, for the chief officer was thoughtfully stirring his tea with his left hand, while his right, as he said he hated dogs, was involuntarily rubbing the rough jowl, the process being so satisfactory that Bruff half-closed his eyes.
“Humph! This seems a better dog than some,” said the mate. “No business on board ship, though. I don’t even like chickens; but we’re obliged to put up with them. I’m always glad, though, when they’re eaten. I once went a voyage with a cow on deck. They wanted the milk for an officer’s lady and her children. That cow used to make me melancholy.”
“Why, sir? Was she such a bad sailor?”
“No; she was always stretching out her neck to try and lick some green paint off one of the boats. Thought it was grass. Cows have no brains. Hallo! What is it, Billy?”
“Mr Morgan wants you, sir.”
“What is it?”
“One on ’em, sir, right below.”
“Bah!” ejaculated the mate. “Coming directly. Let him wait till I’ve finished my tea.”
The sailor gave Mark a knowing look, and made a sign which the lad did not comprehend, as he disappeared through the door.