Dogs have a
certain way about them that gets me every time. I lifted Mr. Fogerty,
a huge hulk of a dog, with much care, and adjusting of overlapping
paws into my hammock, and received a kiss in the eye for my trouble.
Then I followed Mr. Fogerty into the hammock and resumed my slumber,
but not with much comfort. Mr. Fogerty is a large, sprawly dog, who
evidently has been used to sleeping in vast spaces and who sees no
reason for changing a lifelong habit. Consequently he considered me in
the nature of a piece of gratifying upholstery. He slept with his hind
legs on my stomach and his front paws propped against my chin. When he
scratched, as he not infrequently did, what I decided must be a flea,
his hind leg beat upon the canvas and produced a noise not unlike a
drum. Thus we slept, but through some miscalculation I must have slept
over, for it seems that the Master-at-arms, a very large and capable
Irishman, came and shook my hammock.
[Illustration: "I TOOK HIM AROUND AND INTRODUCED HIM TO THE REST OF
THE DOGS AND SEVERAL OF THE BETTER SORT OF GOATS"]
"Hit the deck there, sailor," he said, "shake a leg, shake a leg."
At this point Mr. Fogerty took it upon himself to peer over the side
of the hammock to see who this disturber of peace and quiet could be.
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