That evening the captain gave a dinner-party, invited to which were Creggan, Grant, and the second lieutenant.
It was a pretty little dinner. The captain's cook was really a chef, and the steward a smart young fellow from Austria, whom he had picked up at a London hotel, and who now acted also in the capacity of valet and took the greatest interest in all his master said and did. They say that no man is ever a hero to his valet, but it is the exception that proves the rule.
Antonio Brisha was that exception.
Both Hurricane Bob and Oscar were among the invited guests to the dinner-party.
Now there was only one drawback to Hurricane Bob's presence either outside or inside the captain's quarters. He was so black that the steward, who, when the ship was rolling a bit had to keep his eye on the dish he was carrying so as to balance it, could not see him in the gloaming, and more than once he had tumbled right over the honest dog, while the dish was smashed and the joint of meat continued the journey on its own account.
On such occasions Antonio used to say "Bother!" only he said it more so.
But on this particular evening everything passed off delightfully. When told they must behave, "Oh, certainly, sir", the dogs seemed to reply, and Hurricane Bob at once jumped up and on to the captain's beautiful sofa—the room was furnished like a lady's boudoir.
But Oscar, with his bonnie face and long sable coat, was not going to lie on the deck any more than his companion. So he not only leapt upon the sofa, but from thence on to the top of the piano, there lying down on the loose sheets of music with his chin upon his fore-paws, so that he commanded a bird's-eye view of the table and everything thereon—the snow-white cloth, the bright silver, the sparkling cruets and crystal, the flowers, and the fairy-lights.
"Oh, sir," cried Creggan half-rising, "shall I turn him out?"
"Not a bit of it. Let poor Oscar lie there, he has more good qualities than many a Christian."