Mark’s declaration that the dog would not bite seemed to give the man very little confidence, and no wonder, for Bruff kept eyeing the stowaway suspiciously in a way which seemed to indicate that he was looking out for a fleshy place to seize, but to his disappointment found none, only good opportunities for a grip at a bone.
Just then Small the boatswain came up from the hold, nodded at Mark, and gave one of his thumbs a jerk.
“I showed you your berth, my lad, go and turn in.”
The man went forward and disappeared below, while the big rough boatswain gave the captain’s son another friendly nod.
“Got to be drilled,” he said. “Rough stuff to work up into a sailor. Rather have you, squire.”
“Oh! I should not make a good sailor,” said Mark lingering.
“Not if I took you in hand, my lad? Why, I’d make a man of you in no time. Is the skipper going to hand you over to me?”
“No; I’m only going as far as Plymouth or Penzance for a trip.”
“More’s the pity, my lad. Think twiced of it, and don’t you go wasting your time ashore when there’s such a profession as the sea opening of its arms to you and a arstin of you to come. Look at your father: there’s a man!”
“Is he a very fine sailor?”