"Tip us your fin, then, messm't," said the sailor, holding out his hand. "Give him your paw, Bruff," cried Mark; but the dog paid no heed, only continued to smell the visitor. "Wheer's the skipper?" said the sailor then, hoarsely. "You his boy?" "Yes," said Mark, gazing enviously at a man who was probably one of those about to sail with Captain Strong on his voyage to Singapore and China.
"Mustn't miss my station," and he was settling himself down to sleep again, when, as he glanced at his fellow-traveller, he caught sight of the Skipper's rig-out. "What cheer, messm't!" he cried boisterously. "Whither bound?" and his features expanded into a broad grin. "Portsmouth," said the Skipper. "Right you are, messm't. So'm I. What ship? 'Flash, eh! My stars! You aren't a middy, are yer?"