The totality of what Michael had been up to choked the Captain completely. He could only gesture around from the dying cat to his torn clothes and bleeding wounds and the fox-terriers licking their injuries and whimpering at his feet.
“It’s too bad, sir . . . ” Daughtry began.
“Too bad, hell!” the captain shut him off. “Bo’s’n! Throw that dog overboard.”
“Throw the dog overboard, sir, yes, sir,” the boatswain repeated, but hesitated.
Dag Daughtry’s face hardened unconsciously with the stiffening of his will to dogged opposition, which, in its own slow quiet way, would go to any length to have its way. But he answered respectfully enough, his features, by a shrewd effort, relaxing into a seeming of his customary good-nature.
“He’s a good dog, sir, and an unoffending dog. I can’t imagine what could a-made ’m break loose this way. He must a-had cause, sir—”
“He had,” one of the passengers, a coconut planter from the Shortlands, interjected.
The steward threw him a grateful glance and continued.
“He’s a good dog, sir, a most obedient dog, sir—look at the way he minded me right in the thick of the scrap an’ come ’n’ lay down. He’s smart as chain-lightnin’, sir; do anything I tell him. I’ll make him make friends. See. . . ”
Stepping over to the two hysterical terriers, Daughtry called Michael to him.