“He’s very sick, sir,” he asserted, tugging a little at the chain in the hope of producing instant proof of his contention.  But the dog was gamiest of the game, and swallowed hurriedly.

“Well?  I’m not a vet.  What about it?”

“The whole ship’s crew ’ud be sorry, sir, if ’e was to lose ’is number.  He’s the best mascot this ship ever had, by all accounts.”

“He hasn’t brought us much luck this run!” smiled Applewaite, remembering a long list of “previous convictions” and wondering what Crothers might be up to next.

“No, sir?  We’re still a-top o’ the water, sir.”

“Oh!  He gets the credit for that, eh?  But for him, I suppose we’d have piled up on the reef yesterday?”

“Saving your presence, sir.”

Curley Crothers made a gesture expressive of a world of compliment and praise, but he kept one eye steadily on the dog; he seemed to imply that but for the presence of the dog on board the commander might have forgotten his seamanship.

“Well?  What do you suggest?”

“Seeing the poor dog’s sick, sir, and you and all of us so fond of him, and all he needs is exercise, I thought perhaps as ’ow you’d order me an’ Byng, sir, to take ’im for a run ashore.  There’d be jackals and pi-dogs for ‘im to chase.  A bit o’ sport ’ud set ’im up in a jiffy.  He’s languishing—­that’s what’s the matter with him.”

There were almost tears in his voice as he tugged at the chain surreptitiously, in a vain effort to produce the cataclysm that was overdue.  But for all his efforts to appear affected, his eyes were smiling.  So were his commander’s.

“Why Byng?” he asked.

“Byng cleans him, sir.  He knows Byng.”

“Then, why you?”

“Why; he knows me too, sir, and between the two of us, we’d manage him proper.  S’posin’ he was to get huntin’ on his own and one of us was tired out chasin’ him, t’other could run and catch him.  If there was only one of us, he couldn’t.”

“I see.  Well?  One of the other men might take him on the chain.  A good-conduct man, for instance.”

Crothers tugged at the chain, and the unhappy dog drew away toward the scuppers with all his remaining strength.

“He’s cussed about the chain, sir—­apt to drag on it and try to chaw it through.  Besides, sir, when a dawg’s sick, he’s like a man—­same as me an’ you; he likes to ’ave ’is partic’lar pals with ’im.  Now, that dawg’s fond o’ me an’ Byng.’

“I see.  But supposing exercise isn’t what he wants after all?  Suppose he needs a long rest and lots of sleep?  How about that?”

The argument had reached a crisis, and Curley realized it.  Joking or not, when the commander of a ship takes too long in reaching a decision he generally does not reach a favorable one.  The leash was tugged again, this time with some severity.  The martyred Scamp was drawn on his protesting haunches close to the official table, that the commander might have a better view of his distress.  And then the expected happened—­voluminously.