“Well, what is it?” roared the skipper, patting his favourite’s head.
“It’s that blasted dawg, sir,” cried an angry voice from above. “Go down and show ’im your leg, Joe.”
“An ’ave another lump took out of it, I s’pose,” said another voice sourly. “Not me.”
“I don’t want to look at no legs while I’m at dinner,” cried the skipper. “O’ course the dog’ll bite you if you’ve been teasing him.”
“There’s nobody been teasing ’im,” said the angry voice again. “That’s the second one ’e’s bit, and now Joe’s goin’ to have ’im killed—ain’t you, Joe?”
Joe’s reply was not audible, although the infuriated skipper was straining his ears to catch it.
“Who’s going to have the dog killed?” he demanded, going up on deck, while Rupert, who evidently thought he had an interest in the proceedings, followed unobtrusively behind.
“I am, sir,” said Joe Bates, who was sitting on the hatch while the cook bathed an ugly wound in his leg. “A dog’s only allowed one bite, and he’s ’ad two this week.”
“He bit me on Monday,” said the seaman who had spoken before. “Now he’s done for hisself.”
“Hold your tongue!” said the skipper angrily. “You think you know a lot about the law, Sam Clark; let me tell you a dog’s entitled to have as many bites as ever he likes, so as he don’t bite the same person twice.”