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.
Curley stood with an expression of wooden-headed, abject innocence
on his big, broad face, and looked straight in front of him.
"He certainly is sick, sir," he remarked.
"Sick. Good heavens! The dog's turning himself inside out! That's
the last time a thing like this happens; he's the last dog I ever
take on a cruise. Take him away at once! Bosun--call some one to
wipe up that disgusting mess!"
"Take him ashore, did you say, sir?"
"Take him out of this! Take him anywhere you like! Yes, take him
ashore and lose him--feed him to the sharks--give him to the Arabs--
take him away, that's all!"
"Me and Byng, sir?"
"Yes, you and Byng! Did you hear me tell you to take him away?"
"Very good, sir; thank you!"
Curley Crothers saluted without the vestige of a smile, and hurried
off before the dog could show too early signs of recovering health
and strength or the commander could change his mind.
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