The stronger mind had its way, as usual, and the next day the skipper, coming quietly on deck, was just in time to see Joe Bates throw down a fine fat bloater in front of the now amiable Rupert. He covered the distance between himself and the dog in three bounds, and seizing it by the neck, tore the fish from its eager jaws and held it aloft.
“I just caught ’im in the act!” he cried, as the mate came on deck. “What did you give that to my dog for?” he inquired of the conscience stricken Bates.
“I wanted to make friends with him,” stammered the other.
“It’s poisoned, you rascal, and you know it,” said the skipper vehemently.
“Wish I may die, sir,” began Joe.
“That’ll do,” said the skipper harshly. “You’ve tried to poison my dog.”
“I ain’t,” said Joe firmly.
“You ain’t been trying to kill ’im with a poisoned bloater?” demanded the skipper.
“Certainly not, sir,” said Joe. “I wouldn’t do such a thing. I couldn’t if I tried.”
“Very good then,” said the skipper; “if it’s all right you eat it, and I’ll beg your pardon.”