“Come on, old fellow!” said the skipper enticingly.  “Come along, come on, then!”

The dog came at last, and then the skipper, instead of staying to pat him, raced Bill up the ropes, while the brute, in execrable taste, paced up and down the deck daring them to come down.  Coming to the conclusion, at last, that they were settled for the night, he returned to the forecastle and, after a warning bark or two, turned in again.  Both men, after waiting a few minutes, cautiously regained the deck.

“You call him up again,” said Bill, seizing a boat-hook, and holding it at the charge.

“Certainly not,” said the other.  “I won’t have no blood spilt aboard my ship.”

“Who’s going to spill blood?” asked the Jesuitical Bill; “but if he likes to run hisself on to the boat-hook “—­

“Put it down,” said the skipper sternly, and Bill sullenly obeyed.

“We’ll have to snooze on deck,” said Codd.

“And mind we don’t snore,” said the sarcastic Bill, “’cos the dog mightn’t like it.”

Without noticing this remark the captain stretched himself on the hatches, and Bill, after a few more grumbles, followed his example, and both men were soon asleep.

Day was breaking when they awoke and stretched their stiffened limbs, for the air was fresh, with a suspicion of moisture in it.  Two or three small craft were, like them selves, riding at anchor, their decks wet and deserted; others were getting under way to take advantage of the tide, which had just turned.

“Up with the anchor,” said the skipper, seizing a handspike and thrusting it into the windlass.

As the rusty chain came in, an ominous growling came from below, and Bill snatched his handspike out and raised it aloft.  The skipper gazed meditatively at the shore, and the dog, as it came bounding up, gazed meditatively at the handspike.  Then it yawned, an easy, unconcerned yawn, and commenced to pace the deck, and coming to the conclusion that the men were only engaged in necessary work, regarded their efforts with a lenient eye, and barked encouragingly as they hoisted the sail.

It was a beautiful morning.  The miniature river waves broke against the blunt bows of the barge, and passed by her sides rippling musically.  Over the flat Essex marshes a white mist was slowly dispersing before the rays of the sun, and the trees on the Kentish hills were black and drenched with moisture.

A little later smoke issued from the tiny cowl over the fo’c’sle and rolled in a little pungent cloud to the Kentish shore.  Then a delicious odour of frying steak rose from below, and fell like healing balm upon the susceptible nostrils of the skipper as he stood at the helm.

“Is Mrs. Bunker getting up?” inquired the mate, as he emerged from the fo’c’sle and walked aft.

“I believe so,” said the skipper.  “There’s movements below.”

“’Cos the steak’s ready and waiting,” said the mate.  “I’ve put it on a dish in front of the fire.”