Mother Carey's Chicken Part 3

"You're joking, father."

"Ah! but that would be no joke," said the captain. "I should not approve of his devouring the lowest and most worthless cla.s.s of tramp, or a savage; but when it comes to sailors--"

"What nonsense, father!" cried Mark.

"Why, Mark, my boy, what a good idea! I think I'll borrow that dog and take him to sea."

"Take him to sea, father?"

"Yes: he would be a treasure at clearing the deck of unwelcome visitors--Chinamen or Malays."

"What, pirates?"

"Well, men who would be pirates if they dared: the low-cla.s.s scoundrels who haunt some of the ports."

"All right, father! you shall have him," said Mark.

"Then I will, my boy," said the captain, looking at his son curiously, for he could not understand his willingness to part with his ugly favourite. "He shall be well treated so long as he behaves himself."

"But you can't take the dog without his master," said Mark, smiling.

"Oh, that's it! is it?" said the captain. "I thought there was something behind. Well, that was news for you," he continued.

"News?"

"Yes, that Billy Widgeon brought. I was afraid that we should be crowded in the cabin and I was beginning to regret my promise to take you; but Mr Gregory writes me word that a gentleman and his wife and daughter who were coming with us as far as Singapore have backed out, to go by one of the fast mail-boats, so we shall have plenty of room."

"That's capital!" cried Mark. "Mr Gregory is the second-mate, isn't he?"

"First-mate now, my boy. He was second-mate, but my first-mate is now in command of another vessel, and I was afraid he would take all my old crew."

"But he does not, father, because that sailor said--"

"Yes; the crew stay with me to a man."

CHAPTER THREE.

HOW FIRST-MATE GREGORY DID NOT LIKE DOGS.

"Hullo! whose dog's that?"

It was a hoa.r.s.e gruff voice, which made Mark Strong turn sharply round just as he had crossed the gangway and stepped from the quay at the East India Dock on board the _Black Petrel_, or Mother Carey's Chicken, as the sailors often called her, a large s.h.i.+p conspicuous among the forest of masts rising from the basin.

The speaker was a tall angular-looking man with a pimply face and a red nose, at the top of which he seemed to be frowning angrily as if annoyed with the colour which he could not help. He had turned sharply round from where he was giving orders to some sailors who were busily lowering great bales and packages into the hold; and as Mark faced the tall thin man, whose hands were tucked deep down in the pockets of his pea-jacket, the lad thought he had never seen a more sour-looking personage in his life.

"Hullo, I say!" he cried again, "whose dog's that?"

"Mine, sir."

"Then just take him ash.o.r.e. I don't allow dogs on my deck. Here, I say, you sir," he roared, turning to where the men were making fast the hooks of a kind of derrick to a great package, protected by an open-work lattice of deal, "hadn't you better take that crate of pottery first, and put at the bottom, and then stow that portable steam-engine on the top."

The man addressed--a red-faced, good-humoured-looking sailor, whose bare arms formed a sort of picture-gallery of subjects tattooed in blue-- rubbed his ear and stared.

"Why, the ironwork's heavy and might break the pottery," he said at last.

"Well, won't it break that light carriage, you double-distilled, round-headed wise man of the west, you! Put the heavy goods at the bottom and the light at the top."

"Ay, ay, sir!" shouted the man. "Bear a hand, lads. Now, then."

He unhooked the tackle and attached another great package, while the tall man turned again upon Mark.

"Did you hear what I said about that dog?"

"Yes, I heard," said Mark; "but he's coming part of the way."

"That he is not, my lad, so off you go!"

"Hullo, youngster!" said a cheery voice; and Mark turned sharply, to find the little squatty sailor before him, in tarry trousers and flannel s.h.i.+rt, bare-headed and heated with work.

"Hullo, Widgeon!" cried Mark.

"Hullo, s.h.i.+pmet!" cried the little sailor. "Now, then, just you mind, or--"

He did not finish, but made a peculiar gesture as if he were about to pitch the dog over the side.

"Here, show this young gentleman the way ash.o.r.e," said the tall man.

"Take the dog first."

"No, thankye," said the sailor grinning, "me and him's friends now, aren't we, s.h.i.+pmet? We won't begin by falling out again."

He stooped down and patted Bruff, who blinked up at him, and gave his bushy tail two wags, after which he walked slowly to the tall officer and began to smell his legs.

"Stop: don't do that!" cried Mark, as he saw the officer draw back as if to deliver a kick.

"Nay, don't you kick him, Mr Gregory, sir," said Widgeon. "If you do, he'll take hold; and I know this here sort, you can't get them off again without a knife."

"Are you Mr Gregory?" said Mark.

"Yes, sir, I am; and what then?" cried the mate angrily.

"My name is Strong, and I'm going with my father as far as Penzance."

"You may go with your father as far as Shanghai if you like, young man,"

said the mate angrily; "but I'm not going to have my deck turned into a kennel, so you'd better take your dog ash.o.r.e."

Mark stood staring as the mate walked away to give some orders in an angry tone to another gang of sailors working aft. Then he shouted a command to some men busy in the rigging; while, when Mark turned his head, it was to find Billy Widgeon patting the dog, and smiling up at him.