"Rats aboard this hooker," he soliloquized. "I'd best trice up my boots and gear clear of the deck or the blighters'll be nibbling 'em come morning."
With this resolve, Tom Boldrigg began to collect his "duds", when he heard a decided sneeze.
"Stowaway, eh?" he exclaimed. "Now, then, my hearty, whoever you be, out you come!"
Boldrigg waited for about half a minute, then, having decided that the stowaway was hiding in the tapering part of the fo'c'sle abaft the chain-locker, began to investigate in that direction.
Expecting to find a human being, he was considerably surprised when a moist tongue licked his hand.
"Why, it's a dog!" he exclaimed. "It's Bruin."
Realizing that the need for his concealment was over, Bruin emerged from his retreat, wagging his stumpy tail, but, contrary to custom, the animal made no attempt to bark.
"'Ere's a proper lash-up," soliloquized the old man. "That dog can't come along with us. That's a dead cert. But what's to be done with him? I'd best inform Master Stratton."
Peter's amazement at the news was too great for words. He could give no satisfactory explanation as to how his pet had escaped from the shed, evaded the crew, and succeeded in getting on board the Olivette unperceived. Obviously Bruin could not have leapt from the water on to the boat's deck.
"He must have pulled himself up by the cable," suggested Roche. "Plucky little beggar. Let's take him along. No one will be any the wiser. We can smuggle him ashore."