The boy, stiffening himself into the posture of a private soldier at sight of his officer, cried in a groaning voice:
“Say corned beef, not roast beef!” and Galloon howled in sympathy.
“Again, if you please.”
“Say corned beef, not roast beef!” bawled the youth; and Galloon’s howl rose high in suffering.
“Once more.”
The boy bellowed, and the dog’s accompaniment made a horrible duet.
Scarcely had the noise ceased when Van Laar opening his door, put his head out, and cried:
“Vhas dere cornedt beef ready?”
“You will give that man ship’s bread for his dinner,” said Greaves calmly. “If he shows his nose again I will have a hammock slung for him in the lazarette—the lazarette or the fore-peak—he may take his choice; but the hatch will be kept on.”
These words had no sooner left the captain’s lips than Van Laar came out of his berth.