O'Riley tried it in vain.
"Ah! then," said he to Dumps with a wheedling air and expression of intense affection that would have taken by storm the heart of any civilized dog, "_won't_ ye come now an' lay in yer own kennel?
Sure it's a beautiful wan, an' as warm as the heart of an iceberg.

Doo come now, avic, an' I'll show ye the way." But Dumps's heart was marble; he wouldn't budge.

By means of a piece of walrus, however, he was at length induced to go with the Irishman to the kennel, and was followed by the entire pack.

Here O'Riley endeavoured to make them comfortable, and prevailed on them to lie down and go to sleep; but whenever he attempted to leave them, they were up and at his heels in a moment.
"Och! but ye're too fond o' me intirely, Doo lie down agin, and I'll sing ye a ditty ?" True to his word, O'Riley sat down by the dog-kennel, and gave vent to a howl which his "owld grandmother," he said, "used to sing to the pig;" and whether it was the effects of this lullaby, or of the cold, it is impossible to say, but O'Riley at length succeeded in slipping away and regaining the ship, unobserved by his canine friends.

Half-an-hour later he went on deck to take a mouthful of fresh air before supper, and on looking over the side he saw the whole pack of dogs lying in a circle close to the ship, with Dumps comfortably asleep in the middle, and using Poker's back for a pillow.
"Faix, but ye must be fond of the cowld to lie there all night when ye've got a palace on Store Island." "Fond of society, rather," observed Captain Guy, who came on deck at the moment; "the poor creatures cannot bear to be left alone.