“I can do with a nap,” said Bill. “I’m dog-tired.”
“So am I,” said the other. “It’ll be a tight fit down for’ard, but we couldn’t ask a lady to sleep there.”
Bill gave a non-committal grunt, and as the captain, after the manner of his kind, took a last look round before retiring, placed his hands on the hatch and lowered himself down. The next moment he came up with a wild yell, and, sitting on the deck, rolled up his trousers and fondled his leg.
“What’s the matter?” inquired the skipper.
“That blessed dog’s down there, that’s all,” said the injured Bill. “He’s evidently mistook it for his kennel, and I don’t wonder at it. I thought he’d been wonderful quiet.”
“We must talk him over,” said the skipper, advancing to the hatchway. “Poor dog! Poor old chap! Come along, then! Come along!” He patted his leg and whistled, and the dog, which wanted to get to sleep again, growled like a small thunderstorm.
“Come on, old fellow!” said the skipper enticingly. “Come along, come on, then!”
The dog came at last, and then the skipper, instead of staying to pat him, raced Bill up the ropes, while the brute, in execrable taste, paced up and down the deck daring them to come down. Coming to the conclusion, at last, that they were settled for the night, he returned to the forecastle and, after a warning bark or two, turned in again. Both men, after waiting a few minutes, cautiously regained the deck.
“You call him up again,” said Bill, seizing a boat-hook, and holding it at the charge.
“Certainly not,” said the other. “I won’t have no blood spilt aboard my ship.”