“I was, though,” said the mate rudely. “I thought you’d do that. I was waiting for it. I’m not going to eat after animals, if you are.”
The skipper coughed, and, after effecting the desired exchange, proceeded with his breakfast in sombre silence.
The barge was slipping at an easy pace through the water, the sun was bright, and the air cool, and everything pleasant and comfortable, until the chaperon, who had been repeatedly pushed away, broke through the charmed circle which surrounded the food and seized a fish. In the confusion which ensued he fell foul of the tea-kettle, and, dropping his prey, bit the skipper frantically, until driven off by his mistress.
“Naughty boy!” said she, giving him a few slight cuffs. “Has he hurt you? I must get a bandage for you.”
“A little,” said Codd, looking at his hand, which was bleeding profusely. “There’s a little linen in the locker down below, if you wouldn’t mind tearing it up for me.”
Mrs. Bunker, giving the dog a final slap, went below, and the two men looked at each other and then at the dog, which was standing at the stern, barking insultingly at a passing steamer.
“It’s about time she came over,” said the mate, throwing a glance at the sail, then at the skipper, then at the dog.
“So it is,” said the skipper, through his set teeth.
As he spoke he pushed the long tiller hastily from port to starboard, and the dog finished his bark in the water; the huge sail reeled for a moment, then swung violently over to the other side, and the barge was on a fresh tack, with the dog twenty yards astern. He was wise in his generation, and after one look at the barge, made for the distant shore.
“Murderers!” screamed a voice; “murderers! you’ve killed my dog.”