Under the lee of the stranded hull of an immense dummy battleship, that was finishing a life of strenuous activity in the utilitarian yet humble capacity of a breakwater, lay seven long, lean destroyers. They had just completed a stretch of duty off the Grecian coast, and, relieved by their "opposite numbers", were about to re-bunker, replenish stores and provisions, and give their crews a well-earned spell of rest.
Alongside the little stone jetty lay Captain M'Bride's gig. Into this the three officers stepped. The men "gave way", and the boat sped towards the nearmost destroyer.
"If that's not your dog it's his double, Osborne," remarked Captain M'Bride, pointing to a large animal that was sedately pacing the diminutive quarter-deck of the destroyer, at the heels of a couple of officers.
"Laddie!" shouted Osborne, oblivious of the fact that he was a subordinate officer in the presence of his former skipper.
"Hold on!" protested Captain M'Bride laughingly. "Do wait till we get alongside. He'll be overboard if we don't."
The warning came too late. Osborne had made no mistake in recognizing his long-lost pet, although he had erred in calling to him.
In a trice Laddie cleared the rail, plunged into the water, and swam vigorously towards the gig.
Steering wide of the swimming animal, Captain M'Bride brought the boat alongside the destroyer, and, literally racing up her short accommodation-ladder, gained the shelter of the quarter-deck.
"Now haul the brute into the boat," he exclaimed. "If he soaks you to the skin, that's your funeral, Osborne, not mine."
The possibility of being drenched never deterred Osborne. Grasping the dog by the scruff of the neck, he hove him over the side into the gig; and the next moment the interested onlookers could hardly distinguish the Lieutenant from the dog, so violently excited were both.