“My old master would have given me another one, though,” grumbled Fazackerly. “I wouldn’t ha’ parted with that dog for anything. He knew as much as you or me, that dog did. I never knew him to bite an officer, but I don’t think there was ever a man came on the ship but what he’d have a bit out of, sooner or later.”
“Them sort of dogs do get washed overboard,” said Tweedie impatiently.
“Boys he couldn’t abear,” pursued the other, in tones of tender reminiscence; “the mere sight of a boarding-school of ’em out for a walk would give him hydrophoby almost.”
“Just so,” said Tweedie. “Ah! there’s cork fenders; ye may pick them up floating down the river, or they may come aboard in the night from a craft alongside; they’re changeable sort o’ things, but in the disbursement sheet they must go, and best quality too, four-and-sixpence each. Anything else?”
“There’s the dog,” said Fazackerly persistently.
“Copper nails, tenpence,” said Tweedie the dictator.
“Haven’t bought any for months,” said the other, but slowly entering it.
“Well, it ain’t exactly right,” said Tweedie, shrugging his shoulders, “but you’re so set on him going in.”
“Him? Who?” asked Captain Fazackerly, staring.
“The dog,” said Tweedie; “if he goes in as copper nails, he won’t be noticed.”