“Ay, ay!” said the skipper.

The mate lit his pipe and sat down on the hatchway, slowly smoking.  He removed it a couple of minutes later, to stare in bewilderment at the unwonted behaviour of the dog, which came up to the captain and affectionately licked his hands.

“He’s took quite a fancy to me,” said the delighted man.

“Love me love my dog,” quoted Bill waggishly, as he strolled forward again.

The skipper was fondly punching the dog, which was now on its back with its four legs in the air, when he heard a terrible cry from the fo’c’sle, and the mate came rushing wildly on deck.

“Where’s that -------- dog?” he cried.

“Don’t you talk like that aboard my ship.  Where’s your manners?” cried the skipper hotly.

“——­ the manners!” said the mate, with tears in his eyes.  “Where’s that dog’s manners?  He’s eaten all that steak.”

Before the other could reply, the scuttle over the cabin was drawn, and the radiant face of Mrs. Bunker appeared at the opening.

“I can smell breakfast,” she said archly.

“No wonder, with that dog so close,” said Bill grimly.  Mrs. Bunker looked at the captain for an explanation.

“He’s ate it,” said that gentleman briefly.  “A pound and a ‘arf o’ the best rump steak in Wapping.”

“Never mind,” said Mrs. Bunker sweetly, “cook some more.  I can wait.”

“Cook some more,” said the skipper to the mate, who still lingered.

“I’ll cook some bloaters.  That’s all we’ve got now,” replied the mate sulkily.

“It’s a lovely morning,” said Mrs. Bunker, as the mate retired, “the air is so fresh.  I expect that’s what has made Rover so hungry.  He isn’t a greedy dog.  Not at all.”

“Very likely,” said Codd, as the dog rose, and, after sniffing the air, gently wagged his tail and trotted forward.  “Where’ she off to now?”

“He can smell the bloaters, I expect,” said Mrs. Bunker, laughing.  “It’s wonderful what intelligence he’s got.  Come here, Rover!”

“Bill!” cried the skipper warningly, as the dog continued on his way.  “Look out!  He’s coming!”

“Call him off!” yelled the mate anxiously.  “Call him off!”

Mrs. Bunker ran up, and, seizing her chaperon by the collar, hauled him away.

“It’s the sea air,” said she apologetically; “and he’s been on short commons lately, because he’s not been well.  Keep still, Rover!”

“Keep still, Rover!” said the skipper, with an air of command.

Under this joint control the dog sat down, his tongue lolling out, and his eyes fixed on the fo’c’sle until the breakfast was spread.  The appearance of the mate with a dish of steaming fish excited him again, and being chidden by his mistress, he sat down sulkily in the skipper’s plate, until pushed off by its indignant owner.

“Soft roe, Bill?” inquired the skipper courteously, after he had served his passenger.