"Commander, if we are going to take this tide, we must lose no time; it will be a good hour before we can get off from the docks."
Shandon cast one last glance about him, and looked at his watch. It was after the time of the midday distribution of letters.
"Cast off!" he said to his boatswain.
"All ashore who are going!" cried the latter, ordering the spectators to leave the deck of the Forward.
Thereupon the crowd, began to move toward the gangway and make its way on to the quay, while the crew began to cast off the last moorings.
At once the inevitable confusion of the crowd, which was pushed about without much ceremony by the sailors, was increased by the barking of the dog. He suddenly sprang from the forecastle right through the mass of visitors, barking sullenly.
All made way for him. He sprang on the poop-deck, and, incredible as it may seem, yet, as a thousand witnesses can testify, this dog-captain carried a letter in his mouth.
"A letter!" cried Shandon; "but is he on board?"
"He was, without doubt, but he's not now," answered Johnson, showing the deck cleared of the crowd.