As Barney looked up and saw the admiral signalling from the window, he came across the lawn at a trot, dragging the broom after him.
“Drop that broom and salute your officer, you confounded old barnacle!” roared the old gentleman. “Salute, sir, salute: your master’s appointed to the smartest frigate in the service.”
Barney struck an attitude, sent his old cocked hat spinning into the air, and then catching it, tucked it under his arm, and pulled his imaginary forelock over and over again.
“Good luck to your honour! I am glad. When would you like me to be ready, sir? Shall I go on first and begin overhauling?”
“You, Strake?” said the captain, thoughtfully.
“You’re not going to leave me behind, sir? No, no, sir; don’t say that, sir—don’t think it, sir. I’m as strong and active as ever I was, and a deal more tough. Ask him to take me, Master Syd.”
“Take you, Strake?” said the captain again. “Why, what is to become of my garden?”
“Your garden, captain! What do you want with a garden when you’re at sea? Salt tack and biscuit, and a few bags o’ ’tatoes about all you want aboard ship.”
The captain shook his head.
“It’s a long time since you were on active service, Strake.”