“He doesn’t like it,” continued Steve. “I wonder any one can bear the noise.”
“Tastes differ, my lad,” said the captain. “The men seem to like the sounds on these long, dark nights. I wish we had some one who could play the fiddle, too.”
“Johannes can, and he has one with him,” said Steve eagerly.
“That’s good news, for I want the lads to enjoy themselves, and a little music is the very thing for them. Quiet, dog, quiet! if you mean to stay here.”
For Skene had gone excitedly to the closed door, placed his nose to the crack at the bottom, and growled fiercely.
“It isn’t the pipes,” said Steve, springing up. “He hears something. What is it, Skene?”
“R–rr–rr–ra!” growled the dog in low, menacing tones.
“Now, doctor,” said the captain, setting the example of taking his double gun from the rack and slinging his cartridge-bag over his shoulder.
The doctor followed the captain’s lead, and Steve stepped to the slings on the other side for his.
“Coats on,” said the captain; “it’s bitter out on the deck. Keep him quiet, Steve!”