“Ah! yes,” said Tabby; “but what a pity Cracker didn’t hear the first part.”
Well, said Shireen, we arrived at Portsmouth, I and my master as safe as anything, and after dinner proceeded on board.
The Hydra was the name of the war ship on which we were to sail for India’s distant shore. She was a fine craft of the kind human beings call a corvette. I was not long in perceiving that she carried many long black guns, but was glad to learn soon after my arrival, that as we were going to make a very quick passage out to Bombay, these awful guns would hardly ever be fired.
The Hydra was much larger than the old Venom, had fine open decks, and tall, raking masts, with a low, wide funnel of jet, up which went the crimson copper steampipe. Her decks were as white as ivory, and I could see my face in the polished woodwork, to say nothing of the brass that shone like gold.
I trotted along by my master’s side towards the quarter-deck.
Captain Beecroft in uniform, and looking young and happy, came forward with a smile to bid us welcome.
“So you haven’t parted with your beautiful cat?” said the captain, as we walked to the companion.
“No, Beecroft, nothing, I hope, will ever part me from her.”
“I wonder,” said Beecroft, “if she’ll remember her old pal, the hero, Tom Brandy.”
“What? Have you still got Tom?”