"And how did the dogs take it?" I pursued. There are several
destroyers more or less owned by pet dogs, who start life as the
chance-found property of a stoker, and end in supreme command of the
bridge.
"Most of 'em didn't like it a bit. They went below one time, and
wanted to be loved. They knew it wasn't ordinary practice."
"What did Arabella do?" I had heard a good deal of Arabella.
"Oh, Arabella's _quite_ different. Her job has always been to look
after her master's pyjamas--folded up at the head of the bunk, you
know. She found out pretty soon the bridge was no place for a lady, so
she hopped downstairs and got in. You know how she makes three little
jumps to it--first, on to the chair; then on the flap-table, and then
up on the pillow. When the show was over, there she was as usual."
"Was she glad to see her master?"
"_Ra-ather._ Arabella was the bold, gay lady-dog _then_!"
Now Arabella is between nine and eleven and a half inches long.
"Does the Hun run to pets at all?"
"I shouldn't say so. He's an unsympathetic felon--the Hun. But he
might cherish a dachshund or so. We never picked up any ships' pets
off him, and I'm sure we should if there had been."
That I believed as implicitly as the tale of a destroyer attack some
months ago, the object of which was to flush Zeppelins. It succeeded,
for the flotilla was attacked by several. Right in the middle of the
flurry, a destroyer asked permission to stop and lower dinghy to pick
up ship's dog which had fallen overboard. Permission was granted, and
the dog was duly rescued. "Lord knows what the Hun made of it," said
my informant. "He was rumbling round, dropping bombs; and the dinghy
was digging out for all she was worth, and the Dog-Fiend was swimming
for Dunkirk. It must have looked rather mad from above. But they
saved the Dog-Fiend, and then everybody swore he was a German spy in
disguise."