“Scotland—­sailed from port o’ Leith, bound for Quebec, Montreal—­ general cargo—­seventy-two steerage, four cabin passengers—­brig Anne, one hundred and ninety-two tons burden, crew eight hands.”

Here he produced his credentials, and handed them to the strangers.  The Scotchman just glanced over the documents, and laid them on the table.

“Had you a good passage out?”

“Tedious, baffling winds, heavy fogs, detained three weeks on Banks—­foul weather making Gulf—­short of water, people out of provisions, steerage passengers starving.”

“Any case of sickness or death on board?”

“All sound as crickets.”

“Any births?” lisped the little Frenchman.

The captain screwed up his mouth, and after a moment’s reflection he replied, “Births?  Why, yes; now I think on’t, gentlemen, we had one female on board, who produced three at a birth.”

“That’s uncommon,” said the Scotch doctor, with an air of lively curiosity.  “Are the children alive and well?  I should like much to see them.”  He started up, and knocked his head—­for he was very tall—­against the ceiling.  “Confound your low cribs!  I have nearly dashed out my brains.”

“A hard task, that,” looked the captain to me.  He did not speak, but I knew by his sarcastic grin what was uppermost in his thoughts.  “The young ones all males—­fine thriving fellows.  Step upon deck, Sam Frazer,” turning to his steward; “bring them down for doctors to see.”  Sam vanished, with a knowing wink to his superior, and quickly returned, bearing in his arms three fat, chuckle-headed bull-terriers, the sagacious mother following close at his heels, and looked ready to give and take offence on the slightest provocation.

“Here, gentlemen, are the babies,” said Frazer, depositing his burden on the floor.  “They do credit to the nursing of the brindled slut.”

The old tar laughed, chuckled, and rubbed his hands in an ecstacy of delight at the indignation and disappointment visible in the countenance of the Scotch Esculapius, who, angry as he was, wisely held his tongue.  Not so the Frenchman; his rage scarcely knew bounds—­he danced in a state of most ludicrous excitement, he shook his fist at our rough captain, and screamed at the top of his voice—­

“Sacre, you bete!  You tink us dog, ven you try to pass your puppies on us for babies?”

“Hout, man, don’t be angry,” said the Scotchman, stifling a laugh; “you see ’tis only a joke!”

“Joke! me no understand such joke.  Bete!” returned the angry Frenchman, bestowing a savage kick on one of the unoffending pups which was frisking about his feet.  The pup yelped; the slut barked and leaped furiously at the offender, and was only kept from biting him by Sam, who could scarcely hold her back for laughing; the captain was uproarious; the offended Frenchman alone maintained a severe and dignified aspect.  The dogs were at length dismissed, and peace restored.