“He can smell the bloaters, I expect,” said Mrs. Bunker, laughing. “It’s wonderful what intelligence he’s got. Come here, Rover!”
“Bill!” cried the skipper warningly, as the dog continued on his way. “Look out! He’s coming!”
“Call him off!” yelled the mate anxiously. “Call him off!”
Mrs. Bunker ran up, and, seizing her chaperon by the collar, hauled him away.
“It’s the sea air,” said she apologetically; “and he’s been on short commons lately, because he’s not been well. Keep still, Rover!”
“Keep still, Rover!” said the skipper, with an air of command.
Under this joint control the dog sat down, his tongue lolling out, and his eyes fixed on the fo’c’sle until the breakfast was spread. The appearance of the mate with a dish of steaming fish excited him again, and being chidden by his mistress, he sat down sulkily in the skipper’s place, until pushed off by its indignant owner.
“Soft roe, Bill?” inquired the skipper courteously, after he had served his passenger.
“That’s not my plate,” said the mate pointedly, as the skipper helped him.
“Oh! I wasn’t noticing,” said the other, reddening.