“Don’t halloo before you’re hurt,” advised the skipper. “If you don’t tease him he won’t bite you.”
He went down to his dinner, followed by the sagacious Rupert, leaving the hands to go forward again, and to mutinously discuss a situation which was fast becoming unbearable.
“It can’t go on no longer, Joe,” said Clark firmly; “this settles it.”
“Where is the stuff?” inquired the cook in a whisper.
“In my chest,” said Clark softly. “I bought it the night he bit me.”
“It’s a risky thing to do,” said Bates.
“’Ow risky?” asked Sam scornfully. “The dog eats the stuff and dies. Who’s going to say what he died of? As for suspicions, let the old man suspect as much as he likes. It ain’t proof.”
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.