Mother Careys Chicken | Page 6

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 Gregory?" said Mark.
"Yes, sir, I am; and what then?" cried the mate angrily.
"My name is Strong, and I'm going with my father as far as Penzance."
"You may go with your father as far as Shanghai if you like, young man," said the mate angrily; "but I'm not going to have my deck turned into a kennel, so you'd better take your dog ashore."
Mark stood staring as the mate walked away to give some orders in an angry tone to another gang of sailors working aft. Then he shouted a command to some men busy in the rigging; while, when Mark turned his head, it was to find Billy Widgeon patting the dog, and smiling up at him.
"He's a bit waxy to-day. Just going outer dock into the river, and there's a lot o' work to be done."
"But I thought my father was captain of this ship?" said Mark.
"So he is, youngster, but old Greg does what he likes when the skipper aren't aboard. Oh, here is the skipper!"
"Ah! Mark, my lad, here you are then. So you've brought the dog?"
"Yes, father, and--"
"Where's Mr Gregory?"
"Over yonder, sir," said Billy Widgeon. "Pst!" he whispered to