The skipper was about to repeat it with great readiness when Miss Evans raised her trusty mop. The words died away on his lips, and after a hopeless glance from his mate to the crew and from the crew to the rigging, he accepted his defeat, and in grim silence took them home again.
PICKLED HERRING
There was a sudden uproar on deck, and angry shouts, accompanied by an incessant barking; the master of the brig Arethusa stopped with his knife midway to his mouth, and exchanging glances with the mate, put it down and rose to his feet.
“They’re chevying that poor animal again,” he said hotly. “It’s scandalous.”
“Rupert can take care of himself,” said the mate calmly, continuing his meal. “I expect, if the truth’s known, it’s him ’s been doin’ the chevying.”
“You’re as bad as the rest of ’em,” said the skipper angrily, as a large brown retriever came bounding into the cabin. “Poor old Rupe! what have they been doin’ to you?”
The dog, with a satisfied air, sat down panting by his chair, listening quietly to the subdued hubbub which sounded from the companion.
“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.”