Mother Careys Chicken | Page 6

father?"
"Yes: he would be a treasure at clearing the deck of unwelcome
visitors--Chinamen or Malays."
"What, pirates?"
"Well, men who would be pirates if they dared: the low-class
scoundrels who haunt some of the ports."
"All right, father! you shall have him," said Mark.
"Then I will, my boy," said the captain, looking at his son curiously, for
he could not understand his willingness to part with his ugly favourite.
"He shall be well treated so long as he behaves himself."
"But you can't take the dog without his master," said Mark, smiling.
"Oh, that's it! is it?" said the captain. "I thought there was something

behind. Well, that was news for you," he continued.
"News?"
"Yes, that Billy Widgeon brought. I was afraid that we should be
crowded in the cabin and I was beginning to regret my promise to take
you; but Mr Gregory writes me word that a gentleman and his wife and
daughter who were coming with us as far as Singapore have backed out,
to go by one of the fast mail-boats, so we shall have plenty of room."
"That's capital!" cried Mark. "Mr Gregory is the second-mate, isn't he?"
"First-mate now, my boy. He was second-mate, but my first-mate is
now in command of another vessel, and I was afraid he would take all
my old crew."
"But he does not, father, because that sailor said--"
"Yes; the crew stay with me to a man."
CHAPTER THREE.
HOW FIRST-MATE GREGORY DID NOT LIKE DOGS.
"Hullo! whose dog's that?"
It was a hoarse gruff voice, which made Mark Strong turn sharply
round just as he had crossed the gangway and stepped from the quay at
the East India Dock on board the Black Petrel, or Mother Carey's
Chicken, as the sailors often called her, a large ship conspicuous
among the forest of masts rising from the basin.
The speaker was a tall angular-looking man with a pimply face and a
red nose, at the top of which he seemed to be frowning angrily as if
annoyed with the colour which he could not help. He had turned
sharply round from where he was giving orders to some sailors who
were busily lowering great bales and packages into the hold; and as
Mark faced the tall thin man, whose hands were tucked deep down in

the pockets of his pea-jacket, the lad thought he had never seen a more
sour-looking personage in his life.
"Hullo, I say!" he cried again, "whose dog's that?"
"Mine, sir."
"Then just take him ashore. I don't allow dogs on my deck. Here, I say,
you sir," he roared, turning to where the men were making fast the
hooks of a kind of derrick to a great package, protected by an
open-work lattice of deal, "hadn't you better take that crate of pottery
first, and put at the bottom, and then stow that portable steam-engine
on the top."
The man addressed--a red-faced, good-humoured-looking sailor,
whose bare arms formed a sort of picture-gallery of subjects tattooed
in blue-- rubbed his ear and stared.
"Why, the ironwork's heavy and might break the pottery," he said at
last.
"Well, won't it break that light carriage, you double-distilled,
round-headed wise man of the west, you! Put the heavy goods at the
bottom and the light at the top."
"Ay, ay, sir!" shouted the man. "Bear a hand, lads. Now, then."
He unhooked the tackle and attached another great package, while the
tall man turned again upon Mark.
"Did you hear what I said about that dog?"
"Yes, I heard," said Mark; "but he's coming part of the way."
"That he is not, my lad, so off you go!"
"Hullo, youngster!" said a cheery voice; and Mark turned sharply, to
find the little squatty sailor before him, in tarry trousers and flannel
shirt, bare-headed and heated with work.

"Hullo, Widgeon!" cried Mark.
"Hullo, shipmet!" cried the little sailor. "Now, then, just you mind,
or--"
He did not finish, but made a peculiar gesture as if he were about to
pitch the dog over the side.
"Here, show this young gentleman the way ashore," said the tall man.
"Take the dog first."
"No, thankye," said the sailor grinning, "me and him's friends now,
aren't we, shipmet? We won't begin by falling out again."
He stooped down and patted Bruff, who blinked up at him, and gave his
bushy tail two wags, after which he walked slowly to the tall officer and
began to smell his legs.
"Stop: don't do that!" cried Mark, as he saw the officer draw back as if
to deliver a kick.
"Nay, don't you kick him, Mr Gregory, sir," said Widgeon. "If you do,
he'll take hold; and I know this here sort, you can't get them off again
without a knife."
"Are you Mr