between the
biped and the quadruped. They had the same short, pert contour of face,
the same petulant curl of the nostrils, the same fiery red flash in the
small yellow brown eyes, and the very same method of snarling and
showing off their white malicious-looking teeth. The very colour of
Oscar's low rough coat was nearly the same as the scanty beard and hair
of his inveterate foe. Could Oscar have spoken with a human tongue, he
would have declared himself very little flattered by the resemblance;
for rough as he was, he was an honest dog, and loved honesty in others.
There was only one mental feature common to both--their capacity to hate
and to annoy those they disliked.

Occasionally the little brown man indulged in a fit of mirth. When
retreating under the shade of his ark of safety, the boat, he would sing
in a low bow-wow tone some ditty only known to himself, the upper notes
of which resembled a series of continued snarls. Oscar would then stop
just in front of him, and snarl in return, till the patience of the
musician was utterly exhausted, and he would rush out of his
hiding-place, and pursue his hairy foe round the deck with a cudgel,
uttering unmistakeable curses at every blow.

These skirmishes were nuts for old Boreas to crack, who putting his arms
akimbo, would encourage the pugnacity of his dog with loud cries:

"At him, Oscar!--at him! Give it him strong, my boy!" to the no small
indignation of Mr. Lootie, who would retire, muttering to himself--

"I don't know which is the greatest brute of the two, you or your cur!"

"My dog is a good physiognomist; he knows best," would be the rejoinder;
and the war would recommence with greater fury than ever.

Mr. Lootie was not the only mysterious passenger on board the brig
_Anne_. There was another, who made his appearance among the steerage
passengers the moment the vessel was out of sight of land, to the
astonishment of old Boreas and his crew--a young, handsome, dare-devil
sort of a chap, who might have numbered six-and-twenty years, who called
himself Stephen Corrie. He made his _debut_ upon deck as suddenly and as
unexpectedly as if he had fallen from the stars, and possessed the power
of rendering himself visible or invisible at will.

No one knew, or pretended to know, who he was, or from whence he came.
He had been smuggled on board by the women folk. It was their secret,
and, though it must have been known to many of them, they kept it well.

N