handsome, well-proportioned man. But what a falling off was there!—for some reason, some accident it is supposed, in his infancy, his legs had never grown in length since he was three years old: they were stout as well as his body, but not more than eighteen inches from the hip to the heel; and he consequently waddled about a very ridiculous figure, for he was like a man razéed or cut down. Put him on an eminence of a couple of feet, and not see his legs, and you would say at a distance, “What a fine-looking sailor!” but let him get down and walk up to you, and you would find that Nature had not finished what she had so well begun, and that you are exactly half mistaken. This malconformation below did not, however, affect his strength—it rather added to it; and there were but few men in the ship who would venture a wrestle with the boatswain, who was very appropriately distinguished by the cognomen of Jemmy Ducks. Jemmy was a sensible, merry fellow, and a good seaman: you could not affront him by any jokes on his figure, for he would joke with you. He was indeed the fiddle of the ship’s company, and he always played the fiddle to them when the danced, on which instrument he was no mean performer; and, moreover, accompanied his voice with his instrument when he sang to them after they were tired of dancing. We shall only observe that Jemmy was a married man, and he had selected one of the tallest of the other sex: of her beauty, the less that is said the better—Jemmy did not look to that, or perhaps, at such a height, her face did not appear so plain to him as it did to those who were more on a level with it. The effect of perspective is well known, and even children now have as playthings, castles, etcetera, laid down on card, which, when looked at in a proper direction, appear just as correct as they do preposterous when lying flat before you.
Now it happened that from the level that Jemmy looked up from to his wife’s face, her inharmonious features were all in harmony, and thus did she appear—what is very advantageous in the marriage state—perfection to her husband, without sufficient charms in the eyes of others to induce them to seduce her from her liege lord. Moreover, let it be recollected, that what Jemmy wanted was height, and he had gained what he required in his wife, if not in his own person: his wife was passionately fond of him, and very jealous, which was not to be wondered at, for, as she said, “There never was such a husband before or since.”
We must now return to the conference, observing, that all these parties were sitting down on the deck, and that Jemmy Ducks had his fiddle in his hand, holding it with the body downwards like a base viol, for he always played it in that way, and that he occasionally fingered the strings, pinching them as you do a guitar, so as to send the sound of it aft, that Mr. Vanslyperken might suppose that they were all met for mirth. Two or three had their eyes directed aft, that the appearance of Corporal Van Spitter or the marines might be immediately perceived; for, although the corporal was not a figure to slide into a conference unperceived, it was well known that he was an eavesdropper.
“One thing’s sartin,” observed Coble, “that a dog’s not an officer.”
“No,” replied Dick Short.
“He’s not on the ship’s books, so I can’t see how it can be mutiny.”
“No,” rejoined Short.
“Mein Got—he is not a tog, he is te tyfel,” observed Jansen.
“Who knows how he came into the cutter?”
“There’s a queer story about that,” said one of the men.
Tum tum, tumty tum—said the fiddle of Jemmy Ducks, as if it took part in the conference.
“That poor boy will be killed if things go on this way: the skipper will never be content till he has driven his soul out of his body—poor creature; only look at him as he lies in his hammock.”
“I never seed a Christian such an object,” said one of the sailors.
“If the dog ain’t killed, Bones will be, that’s sartain,” observed Coble: “and I don’t see why the preference should be given to a human individual, although the dog is the skipper’s dog—now then, what d’ye say, my lads?”
Tum tum, tum tum, tumty tumty tum, replied the fiddle.
“Let’s hang him at once.”
“No,” replied Short.
Jansen took out his snickerree, looked at Short, and made a motion with the knife, as if passing it across the dog’s throat.
“No,” replied Short.
“Let’s launch him overboard at night,” said one of the men.
“But how is one to get the brute out of the cabin?” said Cobb; “if it’s done at all it must be done by day.”
Short nodded his head.
“I will give him a launch the first opportunity,” observed Jemmy Ducks, “only—(continued he in a measured and lower tone)—I should first like to know whether he really is a dog or not.”
“A tog is a tog,” observed Jansen.
“Yes,” replied one of the forecastle men, “we all know dog is a dog, but the question is—is this dog a dog?”
Here there was a pause, which Jemmy Ducks filled up by again touching the strings of his fiddle.
The fact was, that, although every one of the sailors wished the dog was overboard, there was not one who wished to commit the deed, not on account of the fear of its being discovered who was the party by Mr. Vanslyperken, but because there was a great deal of superstition among them. It was considered unlucky to throw any dog or animal overboard; but the strange stories told about the way in which Snarleyyow first made his appearance in the vessel, added to the peculiarly diabolical temper of the animal, had often been the theme of midnight conversation, and many of them were convinced that it was an imp of Satan lent to Vanslyperken, and that to injure or to attempt to destroy it would infallibly be followed up with terrible consequences to the party, if not to the vessel and all the crew. Even Short, Coble, and Jansen, who were the boldest and leading men, although when their sympathies were roused by the suffering of poor Smallbones they were anxious to revenge him, had their own misgivings, and, on consideration, did not like to have anything to do with the business. But each of them kept their reflections to themselves, for, if they could not combat, they were too proud to acknowledge them.
The reader will observe that all their plans were immediately put an end to until this important question, and not a little difficult one, was decided—Was the dog a dog?
Now, although the story had often been told, yet, as the crew of the cutter had been paid off since the animal had been brought on board, there was no man in the ship who could positively detail, from his own knowledge, the facts connected with his first appearance—there was only tradition, and to solve this question, to tradition they were obliged to repair.
“Now, Bill Spurey,” said Coble, “you know more about this matter than any one, so just spin us the yarn, and then we shall be able to talk the matter over soberly.”
“Well,” replied Bill Spurey, “you shall have it just as I got it word for word, as near as I can recollect. You know I wasn’t in the craft when the thing came on board, but Joe Geary was, and it was one night when we were boozing over a stiff glass at the new shop there, the Orange Boven, as they call it, at the Pint of Portsmouth—and so, you see, falling in with him, I wished to learn something about my new skipper, and what sort of a chap I should have to deal with. When I learnt all about him, I’d
