The reader will observe that all their plans were immediately put an end to until this important question, and not a little difficult one, was decided—­Was the dog a dog?

Now, although the story had often been told, yet, as the crew of the cutter had been paid off since the animal had been brought on board, there was no man in the ship who could positively detail, from his own knowledge, the facts connected with his first appearance—­there was only tradition, and, to solve this question, to tradition they were obliged to repair.

“Now, Bill Spurey,” said Coble, “you know more about this matter than any one, so just spin us the yarn, and then we shall be able to talk the matter over soberly.”

“Well,” replied Bill Spurey, “you shall have it just as I got it word for word, as near as I can recollect.  You know I wasn’t in the craft when the thing came on board, but Joe Geary was, and it was one night when we were boozing over a stiff glass at the new shop there, the Orange Boven, as they call it, at the Pint at Portsmouth—­and so you see, falling in with him, I wished to learn something about my new skipper, and what sort of a chap I should have to deal with.  When I learnt all about him, I’d half-a-dozen minds to shove off again, but then I was adrift, and so I thought better of it.  It won’t do to be nice in peace times you know, my lads, when all the big ships are rotting in Southampton and Cinque Port muds.  Well, then, what he told me I recollect as well—­ay, every word of it—­as if he had whispered it into my ear but this minute.  It was a blustering night, with a dirty southwester, and the chafing of the harbour waves was thrown up in foams, which the winds swept up the street, they chasing one another as if they were boys at play.  It was about two bells in the middle watch, and after our fifth glass, that Joe Geary said as this: 

“It was one dark winter’s night when we were off the Texel, blowing terribly, with the coast under our lee, clawing off under storm canvas, and fighting with the elements for every inch of ground, a hand in the chains, for we had nothing but the lead to trust to, and the vessel so flogged by the waves, that he was lashed to the rigging, that he might not be washed away; all of a sudden the wind came with a blast loud enough for the last trump, and the waves roared till they were hoarser than ever; away went the vessel’s mast, although there was no more canvas on it than a jib pocket-handkerchief, and the craft rolled and tossed in the deep troughs for all the world like a wicked man dying in despair; and then she was a wreck, with nothing to help us but God Almighty, fast borne down upon the sands which the waters had disturbed, and were dashing about until they themselves were weary of the load; and all the seamen cried unto the Lord, as well they might.

“Now, they say, that he did not cry as they did, like men and Christians, to Him who made them and the waters which surrounded and threatened them; for Death was then in all his glory, and the foaming crests of the waves were as plumes of feathers to his skeleton head beneath them; but he cried like a child—­and swore terribly as well as cried—­talking about his money, his dear money, and not caring about his more precious soul.