“‘Aye, aye, sir,’ says my mate; ‘she’s ate suthin’ that disagreed with her an’ she’s got a tummy-ache. Hark!’
“He held up his finger, and we hears that fog horn noise again.
“‘M-o-o-o-o-o-m!’
“‘Is that the horn-swoggled cow?’ roars the skipper, fair beside himself.
“‘Aye, aye, sir!’ says my mate, touching his cap; ‘she’s bin’ bellering that way fer an hour or more.’
“‘Great shades of Neptune!’ yells the skipper, ‘and we’ve bin tagging all over the Channel, trying ter git away from the beller of our own cow.’
“And that,” concluded old Tom solemnly, “was the worst fog I was ever in, boys. They do say, too, that bovine made fine corned beef, and they used the tin cow—condensed milk—for the rest of that ’ere voyage.”
“Say, Tom, do you expect us to believe that?” asked Herc, with a wink at Ned, after their laughter had subsided.
“Of course,” said the old man-o’-warsman indignantly. “If there’s any insulting doubt in your mind I’ll tell you the year and date of the month.”