“And I think a deal of my dog, and keep him a deal cleaner than Jack. But I don’t want them to be together. Take Jack away.”
“Werry sorry, Mr Mark, sir. Mean no offence,” said Billy apologetically; “but it’s the men, sir. They think a deal o’ that monkey.”
Billy went forward with a chain and a strap to where a kennel had been made for Bruff, by turning a flour barrel on its side and wedging it between two hencoops, and here, greatly to the vexation of the chickens, who lived in dread of Jack’s long hairy arm and clever fingers, which were always stretching through the bars to pull their feathers, the monkey had—to use Billy’s words—“just turned in.” The barrel held the two animals tightly, and there they were cuddled up together in the most friendly manner, Jack with his head right in towards the end, Bruff with his long black muzzle to the front, and Jacko’s tail moving up and down in regular motion as he breathed.
“Here! you’ve got to come home,” cried Billy, making a dash at the monkey’s legs, but he started back as quickly as he went forward, for Bruff sprang up, and, twitching his ears, burst into a furious fit of barking, while Jack got behind him and chattered his defiance.
“Well, that’s a rum game,” said Billy, rubbing his nose with a rusty link of the chain he held; “think o’ them two sticking up for one another like that.”
“Now, then, which is the more intelligent animal?” said Mark, laughing.
“Well, sir, I dunno, but if so be as you’d take your dog away—”
“No,” said Mark quietly, “I sha’n’t interfere. The monkey’s happier there than down in your stuffy forecastle.”
“Which I won’t deny as it is stuffy, sir, far from it,” said Billy; “but when you get used to the smell you don’t mind, and I’m sure Jack likes it. So call away your dog.”
“No,” said Mark, “you may get him away if you like.”