The next day little Murphy ran up and down the deck. The ports over the water-ways had been knocked out as the ship was very deep; they had not been nailed in again. Murphy came to where Jim was lying in irons under the top-gallant-forecastle. He sniffed his bloody clothes and ran away with a squeal. The sailor called after him, but he did not stop until he reached the open port in the waist. Then he sniffed at the ominous stain on the bright deck planks and poked his head through the open port.
“Blood! Blood! Blood!” screamed the parrot in the galley.
Murphy started, slipped, and was gone. The cook rushed to the side, bawling out something that sounded like “man overboard,” and the noise brought the starboard watch on deck with a rush.
“That bloomin’ old pig,” growled Dan, looking over the rail.
There he was, sure enough, swimming wildly and striking himself under the jowl with every stroke.
The captain watched his pig drifting slowly astern for a moment. Then he turned to the mate. “All hands wear ship!” he bawled, and the men rushed to the braces.
“Mr. Enlis,” said the skipper, “you go aloft and keep the critter in sight. Take my glass with you.”
The ship was heavy, so before she could be wore around the little pig was lost in the blue waste of sparkling waters.
The mate came down from the ratlines with the glass and a smile which peculiarly emphasized the singleness of a solitary tooth. He did not like pork.
The skipper walked the quarter-deck and mused with his chin in his hand.