"You won't forget me?" retorted Bremner.
"Never," replied Dumsby, with fervour.
"Av the beacon should be carried away, darlin'," cried O'Connor, "howld tight to the provision-chest, p'raps ye'll be washed ashore."
"I'll drink your health in water, Paddy," replied Bremner.
"Faix, I hope it won't be salt wather," retorted Ned.
They continued to shout good wishes, warnings, and advice to their comrade until out of hearing, and then waved adieu to him until he was lost to view.
We have said that Bremner was alone, yet he was not entirely so; he had a comrade with him, in the shape of his little black dog, to which reference has already been made. This creature was of that very thin and tight-skinned description of dog, that trembles at all times as if afflicted with chronic cold, summer and winter. Its thin tail was always between its extremely thin legs, as though it lived in a perpetual condition of wrong-doing, and were in constant dread of deserved punishment. Yet no dog ever belied its looks more than did this one, for it was a good dog, and a warmhearted dog, and never did a wicked thing, and never was punished, so that its excessive humility and apparent fear and trembling were quite unaccountable. Like all dogs of its class it was passionately affectionate, and intensely grateful for the smallest favour. In fact, it seemed to be rather thankful than otherwise for a kick when it chanced to receive one, and a pat on the head, or a kind word made it all but jump out of its black skin for very joy.
Bremner called it "Pup". It had no other name, and didn't seem to wish for one. On the present occasion it was evidently much perplexed, and very unhappy, for it looked at the boat, and then wistfully into its master's face, as if to say, "This is awful; have you resolved that we shall perish together?"
"Now, Pup," said Bremner, when the boat disappeared in the shades of evening, "you and I are left alone on the Bell Rock!"
There was a touch of sad uncertainty in the wag of the tail with which Pup received this remark.