Michael, Brother of Jerry E-Book

Jack London

• Herausgeber: ShadowPOET
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

MICHAEL, BROTHER OF JERRY

But Michael never sailed out of Tulagi, nigger-chaser on the Eugénie. Once in five weeks the steamer Makambo made Tulagi its port of call on the way from New Guinea and the Shortlands to Australia. And on the night of her belated arrival Captain Kellar forgot Michael on the beach. In itself, this was nothing, for, at midnight, Captain Kellar was back on the beach, himself climbing the high hill to the Commissioner’s bungalow while the boat’s crew vainly rummaged the landscape and canoe houses.
In fact, an hour earlier, as the Makambo’s anchor was heaving out and while Captain Kellar was descending the port gang-plank, Michael was coming on board through a starboard port-hole. This was because Michael was inexperienced in the world, because he was expecting to meet Jerry on board this boat since the last he had seen of him was on a boat, and because he had made a friend.
Dag Daughtry was a steward on the Makambo, who should have known better and who would have known better and done better had he not been fascinated by his own particular and peculiar reputation. By luck of birth possessed of a genial but soft disposition and a splendid constitution, his reputation was that

Leseprobe

Michael,Brother ofJerry

ByJackLondon

Publisher: ShadowPOET

MICHAEL,BROTHEROFJERRY

CHAPTERI

But Michael never sailed out of Tulagi, nigger-chaser on the Eugénie. Once infive weeks the steamer Makambo made Tulagi its port of call on the way fromNew Guinea and the Shortlands to Australia. And on the night of her belatedarrival Captain Kellar forgot Michael on the beach. In itself, this was nothing,for, at midnight, Captain Kellar was back on the beach, himself climbing thehighhilltotheCommissioner’sbungalowwhiletheboat’screwvainlyrummagedthelandscapeandcanoehouses.

In fact, an hour earlier, as the Makambo’s anchor was heaving out and whileCaptain Kellar was descending the port gang-plank, Michael was coming onboardthroughastarboardport-hole.ThiswasbecauseMichaelwasinexperienced in the world, because he was expecting to meet Jerry on boardthis boat since the last he had seen of him was on a boat, and because he hadmadeafriend.

Dag Daughtry was a steward on the Makambo, who should have known betterand who would have known better and done better had he not been fascinatedby his own particular and peculiar reputation. By luck of birth possessed of agenialbutsoftdispositionandasplendidconstitution,hisreputationwasthat

fortwentyyearshehadnevermissedhisday’sworknorhissixdailyquartsofbottled beer, even, as he bragged, when in the German islands, where eachbottle of beer carried ten grains of quinine in solution as a specific againstmalaria.

The captain of the Makambo (and, before that, the captains of the Moresby,the Masena, the Sir Edward Grace, and various others of the queerly namedBurns Philp Company steamers had done the same) was used to pointing himout proudly to the passengers as a man-thing novel and unique in the annals ofthe sea. And at such times Dag Daughtry, below on the for’ard deck, feigningunawareness as he went about his work, would steal side-glances up at thebridgewherethecaptainandhispassengersstareddownonhim,andhisbreastwouldswellpridefully,becauseheknewthatthecaptainwassaying:“See him! that’s Dag Daughtry, the human tank. Never’s been drunk or soberin twenty years, and has never missed his six quarts of beer per diem. Youwouldn’tthinkit,tolookathim,butIassureyouit’sso.Ican’tunderstand.

Gets my admiration.Always does his time, his time-and-a-half and hisdouble-time over time. Why, a single glass of beer would give me heartburnandspoilmynextgoodmeal.Butheflourishesonit.Lookathim!Lookathim!”

And so, knowing his captain’s speech, swollen with pride in his own prowess,Dag Daughtry would continue his ship-work with extra vigour and punish aseventh quart for the day in advertisement of his remarkable constitution. Itwas a queer sort of fame, as queer as some men are; and Dag Daughtry foundinithisjustificationofexistence.

Whereforehedevotedhisenergyandthesoulofhimtothemaintenanceofhisreputation as a six-quart man. That was why he made, in odd moments of off-duty,turtle-shellcombsandhairornamentsforprofit,andwasprettilycrookedin such a matter as stealing another man’s dog. Somebody had to pay for thesix quarts, which, multiplied by thirty, amounted to a tidy sum in the course ofthe month; and, since that man was Dag Daughtry, he found it necessary topassMichaelinboardontheMakambothroughastarboardport-hole.

On the beach, that night at Tulagi, vainly wondering what had become of thewhaleboat,Michaelhadmetthesquat,thick,hair-grizzledship’ssteward.Thefriendshipbetweenthemwasestablishedalmostinstantly,forMichael,fromamerry puppy, had matured into a merry dog. Far beyond Jerry, was he asociable good fellow, and this, despite the fact that he had known very fewwhite men. First, there had been Mister Haggin, Derby and Bob, of Meringe;next, Captain Kellar and Captain Kellar’s mate of the Eugénie; and, finally,Harley Kennan and the officers of theAriel. Without exception, he had foundthem all different, and delightfully different, from the hordes of blacks he hadbeentaughttodespiseandtolorditover.

And Dag Daughtry had proved no exception from his first greeting of “Hello,you white man’s dog, what ’r’ you doin’ herein nigger country?” Michael hadresponded coyly with an assumption of dignified aloofness that was given thelie by the eager tilt of his ears and the good-humour that shone in his eyes.Nothing of this was missed by Dag Daughtry, who knew a dog when he sawone, as he studied Michael in the light of the lanterns held by black boyswherethewhaleboatswerelandingcargo.

Two estimates the steward quickly made of Michael: he was a likable dog,genial-natured on the face of it, and he was a valuable dog. Because of thoseestimates Dag Daughtry glanced about him quickly. No one was observing.For the moment, only blacks stood about, and their eyes were turned seawardwhere the sound of oars out of the darkness warned them to stand ready toreceive the next cargo-laden boat. Off to the right, under another lantern, hecould make out the Resident Commissioner’s clerk and the Makambo’s super-cargoheatedlydiscussingsomeerrorinthebilloflading.

The steward flung another quick glance over Michael and made up his mind.He turned away casually and strolled along the beach out of the circle oflanternlight.Ahundred yards away hesat down in the sand and waited.

“Worth twenty pounds if a penny,” he muttered to himself. “If I couldn’t gettenpoundsforhim,justlikethat,withathank-you-ma’am,I’masuckerthatdon’tknowaterrierfromagreyhound.—Sure,tenpounds,inanypubonSydneybeach.”

And ten pounds, metamorphosed into quart bottles of beer, reared an immenseandradiantvision,verylikeabrewery,insidehishead.

A scurry of feet in the sand, and low sniffings, stiffened him to alertness. Itwas as he had hoped. The dog had liked him from the start, and had followedhim.

For Dag Daughtry had a way with him, as Michael was quickly to learn, whenthe man’s hand reached out and clutched him, half by the jowl, half by theslack of the neck under the ear. There was no threat in that reach, nothingtentativenortimorous.Itwashearty,all-confident,anditproducedconfidenceinMichael.Itwasroughnesswithouthurt,assertionwithoutthreat,suretywithout seduction. To him it was the most natural thing in the world thus to befamiliarlyseizedandshakenaboutbyatotalstranger,whileajovialvoicemuttered:“That’sright,dog.Stickaround,stickaround,andyou’llweardiamonds,maybe.”

Certainly,Michaelhadnevermetamansoimmediatelylikable.DagDaughtryknew,instinctivelytobesure,howtogetonwithdogs.Bynaturetherewasnocruelty in him. He never exceeded in peremptoriness, nor in petting. He didnotoverbidforMichael’sfriendliness.Hedidbid,butinamannerthat

conveyednosenseofbidding.ScarcelyhadhegivenMichaelthatintroductory jowl-shake, when he released him and apparently forgot all abouthim.

He proceeded to light his pipe, using several matches as if the wind blew themout. But while they burned close up to his fingers, and while he made asimulation of prodigious puffing, his keen little blue eyes, under shaggy,grizzled brows, intently studied Michael. And Michael, ears cocked and eyesintent,gazedatthisstrangerwhoseemednevertohavebeenastrangeratall.

If anything, it was disappointment Michael experienced, in that this delightful,two-legged god took no further notice of him. He even challenged him tocloseracquaintancewithaninvitationtoplay,withanabruptmovementliftinghis paws from the ground and striking them down, stretched out well before,his body bent down from the rump in such a curve that almost his chesttouched the sand, his stump of a tail waving signals of good nature while heuttered a sharp, inviting bark. And the man was uninterested, pulling stolidlyawayathispipe,inthedarknessfollowinguponthethirdmatch.

Never was there a more consummate love-making, with all the base intent ofbetrayal,thanthiscavalierseductionofMichaelbytheelderly,six-quartship’ssteward.WhenMichael,notentirelyunwittingofthesnuboftheman’slackofinterest,stirredrestlesslywithathreattodepart,hehadflungathimgruffly:

“Stickaround,dog,stickaround.”

DagDaughtrychuckledtohimself,asMichael,advancing,sniffedhistrousers’ legs long and earnestly. And the man took advantage of his nearnesstostudyhimsomemore,lightinghispipeandrunningoverthedog’sexcellentlines.

“Some dog, some points,” he said aloud approvingly. “Say, dog, you couldpull down ribbons like a candy-kid in any bench show anywheres. Only thingagainst youisthatear,andI could almostiron it out myself.Avet. coulddoit.”

Carelessly he dropped a hand to Michael’s ear, and, with tips of fingersinstinct with sensuous sympathy, began to manipulate the base of the earwhere its roots bedded in the tightness of skin-stretch over the skull. AndMichaellikedit.Neverhadaman’shandbeensointimatewithhisearwithouthurting it. But these fingers were provocative only of physical pleasure sokeenthathetwistedandwrithedhiswholebodyinacknowledgment.

Next came a long, steady, upward pull of the ear, the ear slipping slowlythrough the fingers to the very tip of it while it tingled exquisitely down to itsroots. Now to one ear, now to the other, this happened, and all the while theman uttered low words that Michael did not understand but which he acceptedasaddressedtohim.

“Head all right, good ’n’ flat,” Dag Daughtry murmured, first sliding hisfingers over it, and then lighting a match. “An’ no wrinkles, ’n’ some jaw,good’n’punishing,an’notashadetoofullinthecheekortooempty.”

HeranhisfingersinsideMichael’smouthandnotedthestrengthandevennessof the teeth, measured the breadth of shoulders and depth of chest, and pickedupafoot.Inthelightofanothermatchheexaminedallfourfeet.

“Black,allblack,everynailofthem,”saidDaughtry,“an’ascleanfeetasevera dog walked on, straight-out toes with the proper arch ’n’ small ’n’ not toosmall. I bet your daddy and your mother cantered away with the ribbons intheirday.”

Michaelwasforgrowingrestlessatsuchsearchingexamination,butDaughtry,in the midst of feeling out the lines and build of the thighs and hocks, pausedand took Michael’s tail in his magic fingers, exploring the muscles amongwhich it rooted, pressing and prodding the adjacent spinal column from whichit sprang, and twisting it about in a most daringly intimate way. And Michaelwas in an ecstasy, bracing his hindquarters to one side or the other against thecaressing fingers. With open hands laid along his sides and partly under him,the man suddenly lifted him from the ground. But before he could feel alarmhewasbackonthegroundagain.

“Twenty-six or -seven—you’re over twenty-five right now, I’ll bet you on it,shillingstoha’pennies,andyou’llmakethirtywhenyougetyourfullweight,”Dag Daughtry told him. “But what of it? Lots of the judges fancy the thirty-mark. An’ you could always train off a few ounces. You’re all dog n’ allcorrect conformation. You’ve got the racing build and the fighting weight, an’thereain’tnofeathersonyourlegs.”

“No,sir,Mr.Dog,yourweight’stothegood,andthatearcanbeironedoutbyany respectable dog—doctor. I bet there’s a hundred men in Sydney right nowthatwouldforkovertwentyquidfortherightofcallingyouhis.”

And then, just that Michael should not make the mistake of thinking he wasbeingmuchmadeover,Daughtryleanedback,relightedhispipe,andapparently forgot his existence. Instead of bidding for good will, he was bentonmakingMichaeldothebidding.

And Michael did, bumping his flanks against Daughtry’s knee; nudging hishead against Daughtry’s hand, in solicitation for more of the blissful ear-rubbing and tail-twisting. Daughtry caught him by the jowl instead and slowlymovedhisheadbackandforthasheaddressedhim:

“Whatman’sdogareyou?Maybeyou’reanigger’sdog,an’thatain’tright.Maybesomenigger’sstoleyou,an’that’dbeawful.Thinkofthecruelfatesthatsometimeshappenstodogs.It’sadamnshame.Nowhiteman’sstandforaniggerownin’thelikesofyou,an’here’sonewhitemanthatain’tgoin’to

stand for it.The idea!A nigger ownin’ you an’ not knowin’ howtotrainyou.Of course a nigger stole you. If I laid eyes on him right now I’d up and knockseven bells and the Saint Paul chimes out of ’m. Sure thing I would. Just show’m to me, that’s all, an’ see what I’d do to him. The idea of you takin’ ordersfrom a nigger an’ fetchin’ ’n’ carryin’ for him! No, sir, dog, you ain’t goin’ todo it any more. You’re comin’ along of me, an’ I reckon I won’t have to urgeyou.”

Dag Daughtry stood up and turned carelessly along the beach. Michael lookedafter him, but did not follow. He was eager to, but had received no invitation.At last Daughtry made a low kissing sound with his lips. So low was it that hescarcely heard it himself and almost took it on faith, or on the testimony of hislips rather than of his ears, that he had made it. No human being could haveheard it across the distance to Michael; but Michael heard it, and sprang awayafterinagreatdelightedrush.

CHAPTERII

Dag Daughtry strolled along the beach, Michael at his heels or running circlesof delight around him at every repetition of that strange low lip-noise, andpausedjustoutsidethecircleoflanternlightwhereduskyformslabouredwithlanding cargo from the whaleboats and where the Commissioner’s clerk andtheMakambo’ssuper-cargostillwrangledoverthebilloflading.WhenMichael would have gone forward, the man withstrained him with the sameinarticulate,almostinaudiblekiss.

For Daughtry did not care to be seen on such dog-stealing enterprises and wasplanning how to get on board the steamer unobserved. He edged aroundoutside the lantern shine and went on along the beach to the native village. Ashehadforeseen,alltheable-bodiedmenweredownattheboat-landingworkingcargo.Thegrasshousesseemedlifeless,butatlast,fromoneofthem,cameachallengeinthequerulous,high-pitchedtonesofage:

“Whatname?”

“Mewalkaboutplentytoomuch,”herepliedinthebêche-de-merEnglishofthewestSouthPacific.“Mebelongalongsteamer.Suppose’myoutake’mmealongcanoe,washee-washee,megive’myoufellaboytwosticktobacco.”

“Suppose’myougive’mmetenstick,allrightalongme,”camethereply.

“Megive ’m five stick,” the six-quart steward bargained. “Suppose’myounolike’mfivestickthenyoufellaboygotohellcloseup.”

Therewasasilence.

“Youlike’mfivestick?”Daughtryinsistedofthedarkinterior.

“Me like ’m,” the darkness answered, and through the darkness the body thatowned the voice approached with such strange sounds that the steward lightedamatchtosee.

A blear-eyed ancient stood before him, balancing on a single crutch. His eyeswere half-filmed over by a growth of morbid membrane, and what was not yetcovered shone red and irritated. His hair was mangy, standing out in isolatedpatches of wispy grey. His skin was scarred and wrinkled and mottled, and incolour was a purplish blue surfaced with a grey coating that might have beenpainted there had it not indubitably grown there and been part and parcel ofhim.

A blighted leper—was Daughtry’s thought as his quick eyes leapt from handstofeetinquestofmissingtoe-andfinger-joints.Butinthoseitemstheancientwasintact,althoughonelegceasedmidwaybetweenkneeandthigh.

“Myword!Whatplacestop’mthatfellaleg?”quothDaughtry,pointingtothespacewhichthememberwouldhaveoccupiedhaditnotbeenabsent.

“Big fella shark-fish, that fella leg stop ’m along him,” the ancient grinned,exposingahorribleapertureoftoothlessnessforamouth.

“Me old fella boy too much,” the one-legged Methuselah quavered. “Longtime too much no smoke ’m tobacco. Suppose ’m you big fella white marstergive’mmeonefellastick,closeupmewashee-washeeyouthatfellasteamer.”

“Suppose’mmenogive?”thestewardimpatientlytemporized.

For reply, the old man half-turned, and, on his crutch, swinging his stump oflegintheair,begansidlinghippity-hopintothegrasshut.

“Allright,”Daughtrycriedhastily.“Megive’myousmoke’mquickfella.”

Hedippedintoasidecoat-pocketforthemintageoftheSolomonsandstripped off a stick from the handful of pressed sticks. The old man wastransfigured as he reached avidly for the stick and received it. He uttered littlecrooning noises, alternating with sharp cries akin to pain, half-ecstatic, half-petulant, as he drew a black clay pipe from a hole in his ear-lobe, and into thebowl of it, with trembling fingers, untwisted and crumbled the cheap leaf ofspoiledVirginiacrop.

Pressingdownthecontentsofthefullbowlwithhisthumb,hesuddenlyplumpedupontheground,thecrutchbesidehim,theonelimbunderhimsothat he had the seeming of a legless torso.From a small bag of twistedcoconut hanging from his neck upon his withered and sunken chest, he drewout flint and steel and tinder, and, even while the impatient steward wasprofferinghimaboxofmatches,struckaspark,caughtitinthetinder,blewit

intostrengthandquantity,andlightedhispipefromit.

With the first full puff of the smoke he gave over his moans and yelps, theagitation began to fade out of him, and Daughtry, appreciatively waiting, sawthetremblinggooutofhishands,thependulouslip-quiveringcease,thesalivastop flowing from the corners of his mouth, and placidity come into the fieryremnantsofhiseyes.

What the old man visioned in the silence that fell, Daughtry did not try toguess. He was too occupied with his own vision, and vividly burned beforehim the sordid barrenness of a poor-house ward, where an ancient, very likewhat he himself would become, maundered and gibbered and drooled for acrumboftobaccoforhisoldclaypipe,andwhere,ofallhorrors,nosipofbeereverobtained,muchlesssixquartsofit.

And Michael, by the dim glows of the pipe surveying the scene of the two oldmen, one squatted in the dark, the other standing, knew naught of the tragedyof age, and was only aware, and overwhelmingly aware, of the immenselikableness of this two-legged white god, who, with fingers of magic, throughear-rootsandtail-rootsandspinalcolumn,hadwontotheheartofhim.

The clay pipe smoked utterly out, the old black, by aid of the crutch, withamazing celerity raised himself upstanding on his one leg and hobbled, withhis hippity-hop, to the beach. Daughtry was compelled to lend his strength tothe hauling down from the sand into the water of the tiny canoe. It was a dug-out, as ancient and dilapidated as its owner, and, in order to get into it withoutcapsizing,Daughtrywetonelegtotheankleandtheotherlegtotheknee.Theold man contorted himself aboard, rolling his body across the gunwale soquickly, that, evenwhile it startedto capsize, hisweight was acrossthedanger-pointandcounterbalancingthecanoetoitsproperequilibrium.

Michael remained on the beach, waiting invitation, his mind not quite madeup,butsonearlysothatallthatwasrequiredwasthatlip-noise.DagDaughtrymadethelip-noisesolowthattheoldmandidnothear,andMichael,springing clear from sand to canoe, was on board without wetting his feet.Using Daughtry’s shoulder for a stepping-place, he passed over him and downinto the bottom of the canoe. Daughtry kissed with his lips again, and Michaelturnedaroundsoastofacehim,satdown,andrestedhisheadonthesteward’sknees.

“I reckon I can take my affydavy on a stack of Bibles that the dog just up an’followedme,”hegrinnedinMichael’sear.

“Washee-washeequickfella,”hecommanded.

TheancientobedientlydippedhispaddleandstartedpotteringanerraticcourseinthegeneraldirectionoftheclusteroflightsthatmarkedtheMakambo.Buthewastoofeeble,pantingandwheezingcontinuallyfrom

the exertion and pausing to rest off strokes between strokes. The stewardimpatientlytookthepaddleawayfromhimandbenttothework.

Half-way to the steamer the ancient ceased wheezing and spoke, nodding hisheadatMichael.

“That fella dog he belong big white marster along schooner . . . You give ’mmetensticktobacco,”headdedafterduepausetolettheinformationsinkin.

“Igive’myoubangalongsidehead,”Daughtryassuredhimcheerfully.“White marster along schooner plenty friend along me too much. Just now hestop’malongMakambo.Metake’mdogalonghimalongMakambo.”

There was no further conversation from the ancient, and though he lived longyears after, he never mentioned the midnight passenger in the canoe whocarried Michael away with him. When he saw and heard the confusion anduproar on the beach later that night when Captain Kellar turned Tulagi upside-down in his search for Michael, the old one-legged one remained discreetlysilent. Who was he to seek trouble with the strange ones, the white masterswhocameandwentandrovedandruled?

In this the ancient was in nowise unlike the rest of his dark-skinnedMelanesian race.The whites were possessed of unguessed and unthinkableways and purposes.They constituted another world and were as a play ofsuperiorbeingsonanexaltedstagewherewasnorealitysuchasblackmenmightknowasreality,where,likethephantomsofadream,thewhitemenmovedandwereasshadowscastuponthevastandmysteriouscurtainoftheCosmos.

Thegang-plankbeingontheportside,DagDaughtrypaddledaroundtothestarboardandbroughtthecanoetoastopunderacertainopenport.

“Kwaque!”hecalledsoftly,once,andtwice.

Atthesecondcallthelightoftheportwasobscuredapparentlybyaheadthatpipeddowninathinsqueak.

“Mestop’m,marster.”

“Onefelladogstop’malongyou,”thestewardwhisperedup.“Keep’mdoorshut.Youwaitalongme.Standby!Now!”

With a quick catch and lift, he passed Michael up and into unseen handsoutstretched from the iron wall of the ship, and paddled ahead to an opencargo port. Dipping into his tobacco pocket, he thrust a loose handful of sticksintotheancient’shandandshovedthecanoeadriftwithnothoughtofhowitshelplessoccupantwouldeverreachshore.

Theoldmandidnottouchthepaddle,andhewasunregardlessofthelofty-sidedsteamerasthecanoeslippeddownthelengthofitintothedarkness

astern. He was too occupied in counting the wealth of tobacco showered uponhim. No easy task, his counting. Five was the limit of his numerals. When hehad counted five, he began over again and counted a second five. Three fiveshe found in all, and two sticks over; and thus, at the end of it, he possessed asdefinite a knowledge of the number of sticks as would be possessed by theaveragewhitemanbymeansofthesinglenumberseventeen.

Moreitwas,farmore,thanhisavaricehaddemanded.Yethewasunsurprised.Nothing white men did could surprise. Had it been two sticks instead ofseventeen, he would have been equally unsurprised. Since all acts of whitemen were surprises, the only surprise of action they could achieve for a blackmanwouldbethedoingofanunsurprisingthing.

Paddling, wheezing, resting, oblivious of the shadow-world of the white men,knowing only the reality of Tulagi Mountain cutting its crest-line blacklyacross the dim radiance of the star-sprinkled sky, the reality of the sea and ofthecanoehesofeeblyurgedacrossit,andtherealityofhisfadingstrengthand of the death into which he would surely end, the ancient black man slowlymadehisshorewardway.

CHAPTERIII

In the meanwhile, Michael. Lifted through the air, exchanged into invisiblehands that drew him through a narrow diameter of brass into a lighted room,Michael looked about him in expectancy of Jerry. But Jerry, at that moment,lay cuddled beside Villa Kennan’s sleeping-cot on the slant deck of the Ariel,as that trim craft, the Shortlands astern and New Guinea dead ahead, heeledherscuppersa-whisperandgarruloustothesea-welteralongsideassheloggedherelevenknotsunderthepressofthefresheningtrades.InsteadofJerry,fromwhomhehadlastpartedonboardaboat,MichaelsawKwaque.

Kwaque? Well, Kwaque was Kwaque, an individual, more unlike all othermen than most men are unlike one another. No queerer estray ever driftedalongthestreamoflife.Seventeenyearsoldhewas,asmenmeasuretime;buta century was measured in his lean-lined face, his wrinkled forehead, hishollowed temples, and his deep-sunk eyes. From his thin legs, fragile-lookingaswindstraws,thebonesofwhichweresheathedinwitheredskinwithapparently no muscle padding in between—from such frail stems sprouted thetorsoofafatman.Thehugeandprotuberantstomachwasamplysupportedbywide and massive hips, and the shoulders were broad as those of a Hercules.But, beheld sidewise, there was no depth to those shoulders and the top of thechest.Almost,atthatpartofhisanatomy,heseemedbuildedintwodimensions.Thinhisarmswereashislegs,and,asMichaelfirstbeheldhim,

hehadalltheseemingofabig-belliedblackspider.

He proceeded to dress, a matter of moments, slipping into duck trousers andblouse, dirty and frayed from long usage. Two fingers of his left hand weredoubled into a permanent bend, and, to an expert, would have advertised thathe was a leper. Although he belonged to Dag Daughtry just as much as if thesteward possessed a chattel bill of sale of him, his owner did not know that hisanæsthetictwistofravagednervestokenedthedreaddisease.

The manner of the ownership was simple. At King William Island, in theAdmiralties, Kwaque had made, in the parlance of the South Pacific, a pier-head jump. So to speak, leprosy and all, he had jumped into Dag Daughtry’sarms.Strollingalongthenativerunwaysinthefringeofjunglejustbeyondthebeach, as was his custom, to see whatever he might pick up, the steward hadpickedupKwaque.Andhehadpickedhimupinextremity.

Pursued by two very active young men armed with fire-hardened spears,tottering along with incredible swiftness on his two spindle legs, Kwaque hadfallen exhausted at Daughtry’s feet and looked up at him with the beseechingeyes of a deer fleeing from the hounds. Daughtry had inquired into the matter,and the inquiry was violent; for he had a wholesome fear of germs and bacilli,and when the two active young men tried to run him through with their filth-corroded spears, he caught the spear of one young man under his arm and putthe other young man to sleep with a left hook to the jaw. A moment later theyoungmanwhosespearheheldhadjoinedtheotherinslumber.

The elderly steward was not satisfied with the mere spears. While the rescuedKwaque continued to moan and slubber thankfulness at his feet, he proceededto strip them that were naked. Nothing they wore in the way of clothing, butfrom around each of their necks he removed a necklace of porpoise teeth thatwas worth a gold sovereign in mere exchange value. From the kinky locks ofone of the naked young men he drew a hand-carved, fine-toothed comb, thelofty back of which was inlaid with mother-of-pearl, which he later sold inSydneytoacurioshopforeightshillings.Noseandearornamentsofboneandturtle-shell he also rifled, as well as a chest-crescent of pearl shell, fourteeninches across, worth fifteen shillings anywhere. The two spears ultimatelyfetched him five shillings each from the tourists at Port Moresby. Not lightlymayashipstewardundertaketomaintainasix-quartreputation.

Whenheturnedtodepartfromtheactiveyoungmen,who,backtoconsciousness,wereobservinghimwithbright,quick,wild-animaleyes,Kwaque followed so close at his heels as to step upon them and make himstumble. Whereupon he loaded Kwaque with his trove and put him in front tolead along the runway to the beach. And for the rest of the way to the steamer,Dag Daughtry grinned and chuckled at sight of his plunder and at sight ofKwaque,whofantasticallytitubatedandambledalong,barrel-like,onhis

pipe-stems.

Onboardthesteamer,whichhappenedtobetheCockspur,Daughtrypersuaded the captain to enter Kwaque on the ship’s articles as steward’shelperwitharatingoftenshillingsamonth.Also,helearnedKwaque’sstory.

It was all an account of a pig. The two active young men were brothers wholived in the next village to his, and the pig had been theirs—so Kwaquenarrated in atrocious bêche-de-mer English. He, Kwaque, had never seen thepig. He had never known of its existence until after it was dead. The twoyoung men had loved the pig. But what of that? It did not concern Kwaque,who was as unaware of their love for the pig as he was unaware of the pigitself.

The first he knew, he averred, was the gossip of the village that the pig wasdead, and that somebody would have to die for it. It was all right, he said, inreply to a query from the steward. It was the custom. Whenever a loved pigdied its owners were in custom bound to go out and kill somebody, anybody.Of course, it was better if they killed the one whose magic had made the pigsick. But, failing that one, any one would do. Hence Kwaque was selected fortheblood-atonement.

Dag Daughtry drank a seventh quart as he listened, so carried away was he bythe sombre sense of romance of this dark jungle event wherein men killedevenstrangersbecauseapigwasdead.

Scouts out on the runways, Kwaque continued, brought word of the coming ofthe two bereaved pig-owners, and the village had fled into the jungle andclimbedtrees—allexceptKwaque,whowasunabletoclimbtrees.

“Myword,”Kwaqueconcluded,“menomake’mthatfellapigsick.”

“My word,” quoth Dag Daughtry, “you devil-devil along that fella pig toomuch.Youlook’mlikehell.Youmake’manyfellathingsicklookalongyou.Youmake’mmesicktoomuch.”

It became quite a custom for the steward, as he finished his sixth bottle beforeturning in, to call upon Kwaque for his story. It carried him back to hisboyhood when he had been excited by tales of wild cannibals in far lands anddreamed some day to see them for himself. And here he was, he wouldchuckletohimself,witharealtruecannibalforaslave.

AslaveKwaquewas,asmuchasifDaughtryhadboughthimontheauction-block.WheneverthestewardtransferredfromshiptoshipoftheBurnsPhilpfleet,healwaysstipulatedthatKwaqueshouldaccompanyhimandbedulyrated at ten shillings. Kwaque had no say in the matter. Even had he desired toescapeinAustralianports,therewasnoneedforDaughtrytowatchhim.Australia,withher“all-white”policy,attendedtothat.Nodark-skinned

human, whether Malay, Japanese, or Polynesian, could land on her shorewithout putting into the Government’s hand a cash security of one hundredpounds.

Nor at the other islands visited by the Makambo had Kwaque any desire to cutand run for it. King William Island, which was the only land he had ever trod,was his yard-stick by which he measured all other islands. And since KingWilliamIslandwascannibalistic,hecouldonlyconcludethattheotherislandsweregiventosimilardietarypractice.

AsforKingWilliamIsland,theMakambo,ontheformerrunoftheCockspur,stopped there every ten weeks; but the direst threat Daughtry ever held overhim was the putting ashore of him at the place where the two active youngmen still mourned their pig. In fact, it was their regular programme, each trip,to paddle out and around the Makambo and make ferocious grimaces up atKwaque,whogrimacedbackatthemfromovertherail.Daughtry evenencouraged this exchange of facial amenities for the purpose of deterring himfromeverhopingtowinashoretothevillageofhisbirth.

For that matter, Kwaque had little desire to leave his master, who, after all,was kindly and just, and never lifted a hand to him. Having survived sea-sicknessatthefirst,andneversettingfootuponthelandsothatheneveragainknew sea-sickness, Kwaque was certain he lived in an earthly paradise. Heneverhadtoregrethisinabilitytoclimbtrees,becausedangerneverthreatened him. He had food regularly, and all he wanted, and it was suchfood! No one in his village could have dreamed of any delicacy of the manydelicacies which he consumed all the time. Because of these matters he evenpulled through a light attack of home-sickness, and was as contented a humanaseversailedtheseas.

AndKwaqueitwaswhopulledMichaelthroughtheport-holeintoDagDaughtry’s stateroom and waited for that worthy to arrive by the roundaboutway of the door. After a quick look around the room and a sniff of the bunkand under the bunk which informed him that Jerry was not present, MichaelturnedhisattentiontoKwaque.

Kwaque tried to be friendly. He uttered a clucking noise in advertisement ofhis friendliness, and Michael snarled at this black who had dared to lay handsupon him—a contamination, according to Michael’s training—and who nowdaredtoaddresshimwhoassociatedonlywithwhitegods.

Kwaque passed off the rebuff with a silly gibbering laugh and started to stepnearer the door to be in readiness to open it at his master’s coming. But at firstlift of his leg, Michael flew at it. Kwaque immediately put it down, andMichael subsided, though he kept a watchful guard. What did he know of thisstrangeblack,savethathewasablackandthat,intheabsenceofawhite

master, all blacks required watching? Kwaque tried slowly sliding his footalong the floor, but Michael knew the trick and with bristle and growl put astoptoit.

It was upon this tableau that Daughtry entered, and, while he admired Michaelmuchunderthebrightelectriclight,herealizedthesituation.

“Kwaque, you make ’m walk about leg belong you,” he commanded, in ordertomakesure.

Kwaque’s glance of apprehension at Michael was convincing enough, but thesteward insisted. Kwaque gingerly obeyed, but scarcely had his foot moved aninch when Michael’s was upon him. The foot and leg petrified, while Michaelstiff-leggedlydrewahalf-circleofintimidationabouthim.

“Got you nailed to the floor, eh?” Daughtry chuckled. “Some nigger-chaser,myword,anyamount.”

“Hey, you, Kwaque, go fetch ’m two fella bottle of beer stop ’m along icey-chestis,”hecommandedinhismostperemptorymanner.

Kwaque looked beseechingly, but did not stir. Nor did he stir at a harsherrepetitionoftheorder.

“My word!” the steward bullied.“Suppose ’m you no fetch ’m beer close up,Iknock’meightbells’n’adog-watchontayou.Suppose’myounofetch’mcloseup,memake’myougoashore’n’walkaboutalongKingWilliamIsland.”

“Nocan,”Kwaquemurmuredtimidly.“Eyebelongdoglookalongmetoomuch.Menolike’mdogkai-kaialongme.”

“Youfrightalongdog?”hismasterdemanded.“Myword,mefrightalongdoganyamount.”

Dag Daughtry was delighted. Also, he was thirsty from his trip ashore and didnotprolongthesituation.

“Hey, you, dog,” he addressed Michael. “This fella boy he all right. Savvee?Heallright.”

Michael bobbed his tail and flattened his ears in token that he was trying tounderstand. Whenthestewardpattedtheblackontheshoulder,Michaeladvancedandsniffedboththelegshehadkeptnailedtothefloor.

“Walk about,” Daughtry commanded. “Walk about slow fella,” he cautioned,thoughtherewaslittleneed.

Michael bristled, but permitted the first timid step. At the second he glancedupatDaughtrytomakecertain.

“That’sright,”hewasreassured.“Thatfellaboybelongme.Heallright,you

bet.”

Michael smiled with his eyes that he understood, and turned casually aside toinvestigate an open box on the floor which contained plates of turtle-shell,hack-saws,andemerypaper.

“And now,” Dag Daughtry muttered weightily aloud, as, bottle in hand, heleaned back in his arm-chair while Kwaque knelt at his feet to unlace hisshoes, “now to consider a name for you, Mister Dog, that will be just to yourbreedingandfairtomypowersofinvention.”

CHAPTERIV

Irish terriers, when they have gained maturity, are notable, not alone for theircourage, fidelity, and capacity for love, but for their cool-headedness andpowerofself-controlandrestraint.They are lesseasily excited off theirbalance; they can recognize and obey their master’s voice in the scuffle andrage of battle; and they never fly into nervous hysterics such as are common,say,withfox-terriers.

Michael possessed no trace of hysteria, though he was more temperamentallyexcitable and explosive than his blood-brother Jerry, while his father andmother were a sedate old couple indeed compared with him. Far more thanmature Jerry, was mature Michael playful and rowdyish. His ebullient spiritswere always on tap to spill over on the slightest provocation, and, as he wasafterwardstodemonstrate,hecouldwearyapuppywithplay.Inshort,Michaelwasamerrysoul.

“Soul” is used advisedly. Whatever the human soul may be—informing spirit,identity, personality, consciousness—that intangible thing Michael certainlypossessed. His soul, differing only in degree, partook of the same attributes asthe human soul. He knew love, sorrow, joy, wrath, pride, self-consciousness,humour. Three cardinal attributes of the human soul are memory, will, andunderstanding;andmemory,will,andunderstandingwereMichael’s.

Just like a human, with his five senses he contacted with the world exterior tohim. Just like a human, the results to him of these contacts were sensations.Just like a human, these sensations on occasion culminated in emotions. Stillfurther, like a human, he could and did perceive, and such perceptions didflowerinhisbrainasconcepts,certainlynotsowideanddeepandreconditeasthoseofhumans,butconceptsnevertheless.

Perhaps, to let the human down a trifle from such disgraceful identity of thehighestlife-attributes,itwouldbewelltoadmitthatMichael’ssensationswerenotquitesopoignant,sayinthematterofaneedle-thrustthroughhisfootas

compared with a needle-thrust through the palm of a hand.Also, it isadmitted,whenconsciousnesssuffusedhisbrainwithathought,thatthethoughtwasdimmer,vaguerthanasimilarthoughtinahumanbrain.Furthermore,itisadmittedthatnever,never,inamillionlifetimes,couldMichaelhavedemonstratedapropositioninEuclidorsolvedaquadraticequation.Yethewascapableofknowingbeyondallperadventureofadoubtthatthreebonesaremorethantwobones,andthattendogscomposeamoreredoubtablehostthandotwodogs.

One admission, however, will not be made, namely, that Michael could notloveasdevotedly,aswholeheartedly,unselfishly,madly,self-sacrificinglyasahuman. He did so love—not because he was Michael, but because he was adog.

Michael had loved Captain Kellar more than he loved his own life. No morethan Jerry for Skipper, would he have hesitated to risk his life for CaptainKellar. And he was destined, as time went by and the conviction that CaptainKellar had passed into the inevitable nothingness along with Meringe and theSolomons,tolovejustasabsolutelythissix-quartstewardwiththeunderstanding ways and the fascinating lip-caress. Kwaque, no; for Kwaquewas black. Kwaque he merely accepted, as an appurtenance, as a part of thehumanlandscape,asachattelofDagDaughtry.

But he did not know this new god as Dag Daughtry. Kwaque called him“marster”; but Michael heard other white men so addressed by the blacks.Many blacks hadhe heard call Captain Kellar “marster.”ItwasCaptainDuncan who called the steward “Steward.” Michael came to hear him, and hisofficers, and all the passengers, so call him; and thus, to Michael, his god’sname was Steward, and for ever after he was to know him and think of him asSteward.

There was the question of his own name. The next evening after he came onboard, Dag Daughtry talked it over with him. Michael sat on his haunches, thelength of his lower jaw resting on Daughtry’s knee, the while his eyes dilated,contracted and glowed, his ears ever pricking and repricking to listen, hisstumptailthumpingecstaticallyonthefloor.

“It’s this way, son,” the steward told him. “Your father and mother were Irish.Nowdon’tbedenyingit,yourascal—”

This, as Michael, encouraged by the unmistakable geniality and kindness inthe voice, wriggled his whole body and thumped double knocks of delightwithhistail.Notthatheunderstoodawordofit,butthathedidunderstandthesomething behind the speech that informed the string of sounds with all themysteriouslikeablenessthatwhitegodspossessed.

“Neverbeashamedofyourancestry.An’remember,GodlovestheIrish—

Kwaque! Go fetch ’m two bottle beer fella stop ’m along icey-chestis!—Why,the very mug of you, my lad, sticks out Irish all over it.” (Michael’s tail beat atattoo.) “Now don’t be blarneyin’ me. ’Tis well I’m wise to your insidyous,snugglin’, heart-stealin’ ways. I’ll have ye know my heart’s impervious. ’Tissoakedtoolongthismanyadayinbeer.Istoleyoutosellyou,nottobelovin’you.Icould’velovedyouonce;butthatwasbeforemeandbeerwasintroduced. I’d sell you for twenty quid right now, coin down, if the chanceoffered. An’ I ain’t goin’ to love you, so you can put that in your pipe ’n’smokeit.”

“ButasIwasabouttosaywhensorudelyinterruptedbyyour’fectionateways

—”

Here he broke off to tilt to his mouth the opened bottle Kwaque handed him.Hesighed,wipedhislipswiththebackofhishand,andproceeded.

“’Tis a strange thing, son, this silly matter of beer. Kwaque, the Methusalem-faced ape grinnin’ there, belongs to me. But by my faith do I belong to beer,bottles ’n’ bottles of it ’n’ mountains of bottles of it enough to sink the ship.Dog, truly I envy you, settin’ there comfortable-like inside your body that’suntainted of alcohol. I may own you, and the man that gives me twenty quidwill own you, but never will a mountain of bottles own you. You’re a freerman than I am, Mister Dog, though I don’t know your name. Which remindsme—”

He drained the bottle, tossed it to Kwaque, and made signs for him to open theremainingone.

“Thenamin’ofyou,son,isnotlightlytobeconsidered.Irish,ofcourse,butwhat shall it be?Paddy?Well may you shake your head.There’s no smackofdistinctiontoit.Who’dmistakeyouforahod-carrier?Ballymenamightdo,butitsoundsmuchlikealady,myboy.Ay,boyyouare.’Tisanidea.Boy!Let’ssee.BansheeBoy?Rotten.LadofErin!”

Henoddedapprobationandreachedforthesecondbottle.Hedrankandmeditated,anddrankagain.

“I’ve got you,” he announced solemnly. “Killeny is a lovely name, and it’sKilleny Boy for you. How’s that strike your honourableness?—high-soundin’,dignified as a earl or . . . or a retired brewer. Many’s the one of that gentryI’vehelpedtoretireinmyday.”

Hefinishedhisbottle,caughtMichaelsuddenlybybothjowls,and,leaningforward, rubbed noses with him. As suddenly released, with thumping tail anddancingeyes,Michaelgazedupintothegod’sface.Adefinitesoul, or entity, or spirit-thing glimmered behind his dog’s eyes, already fond with affectionfor this hair-grizzled god who talked with him he knew not what, but whoseverytalkingcarrieddeliciousandunguessablemessagestohisheart.

“Hey!Kwaque,you!”

Kwaque, squatted on the floor, his hams on his heels, paused from the rough-polishing of a shell comb designed and cut out by his master, and looked up,eagertoreceivecommandandserve.

“Kwaque, you fella this time now savvee name stop along this fella dog. Hisname belong ’m him, Killeny Boy. You make ’m name stop ’m inside headbelong you. All the time you speak ’m this fella dog, you speak ’m KillenyBoy. Savvee? Suppose ’m you no savvee, I knock ’m block off belong you.KillenyBoy,savvee!KillenyBoy.KillenyBoy.”

As Kwaque removed his shoes and helped him undress, Daughtry regardedMichaelwithsleepyeyes.

“I’ve got you, laddy,” he announced, as he stood up and swayed toward bed.“I’ve got your name, an’ here’s your number—I got that, too: high-strung butreasonable.Itfitsyoulikethepaperonthewall.

“High-strungbutreasonable,that’swhatyouare,KillenyBoy,high-strungbutreasonable,” he continued to mumble as Kwaque helped to roll him into hisbunk.

Kwaquereturnedtohispolishing.Hislipsstammeredandhaltedinthemaking of noiseless whispers, as, with corrugated brows of puzzlement, headdressedthesteward:

“Marster,whatnamestop’malongthatfelladog?”

“Killeny Boy, you kinky-head man-eater, Killeny Boy, Killeny Boy,” DagDaughtry murmured drowsily. “Kwaque, you black blood-drinker, run n’ fetch’monefellabottlestop’malongicey-chestis.”

“No stop ’m, marster,” the black quavered, with eyes alert for something to bethrownathim.“Sixfellabottlehefinishaltogether.”

Thesteward’ssolereplywasasnore.

The black, with the twisted hand of leprosy and with a barely perceptibleinfiltrationofthesamediseasethickeningtheskinoftheforeheadbetweentheeyes,bentoverhispolishing,andeverhislipsmoved,repeatingoverandover,“KillenyBoy.”

CHAPTERV

For a number of days Michael saw only Steward and Kwaque. This wasbecausehewasconfinedtothesteward’sstateroom.Nobodyelseknewthathewasonboard,andDagDaughtry,thoroughlyawarethathehadstolenawhite

man’sdog,hopedtokeephispresencesecretandsmugglehimashorewhentheMakambodockedinSydney.

Quickly the steward learned Michael’s pre-eminent teachableness.In thecourse of his careful feeding of him, he gave him an occasional chicken bone.Two lessons, which would scarcely be called lessons, since both of themoccurred within five minutes and each was not over half a minute in duration,sufficedtoteachMichaelthatonlyontheflooroftheroominthecornernearest thedoorcouldhechewchickenbones.Thereafter,withoutprompting,asamatterofcoursewhenhandedabone,hecarriedittothecorner.

Andwhynot?HehadthewittograspwhatStewarddesiredofhim;hehadtheheart that made it a happiness for him to serve. Steward was a god who waskind, who loved him with voice and lip, who loved him with touch of hand,rub of nose, or enfolding arm. As all service flourishes in the soil of love, sowith Michael. Had Steward commanded him to forego the chicken bone afteritwasinthecorner,hewouldhaveservedhimbyforegoing.Whichisthewayof the dog, the only animal that will cheerfully and gladly, with leaping bodyof joy, leave its food uneaten in order to accompany or to serve its humanmaster.

Practicallyallhiswakingtimeoffduty,DagDaughtryspentwiththeimprisoned Michael, who, at command, had quickly learned to refrain fromwhiningandbarking.AndduringthesehoursofcompanionshipMichaellearned many things. Daughtry found that he already understood and obeyedsimple things such as “no,” “yes,” “get up,” and “lie down,” and he improvedonthem,teachinghim,“Gointothebunkandliedown,”“Gounderthebunk,”“Bring one shoe,” “Bring two shoes.” And almost without any work at all, hetaught him to roll over, to say his prayers, to play dead, to sit up and smoke apipe with a hat on his head, and not merely to stand up on his hind legs but towalkonthem.

Then, too, was the trick of “no can and can do.”Placing a savoury, nose-tantalising bit of meat or cheese on the edge of the bunk on a level withMichael’s nose, Daughtry would simply say, “No can.” Nor would Michaeltouch the food till he received the welcome, “Can do.” Daughtry, with the “nocan” still in force, would leave the stateroom, and, though he remained awayhalf an hour or half a dozen hours, on his return he would find the fooduntouched and Michael, perhaps, asleep in the corner at the head of the bunkwhich had been allotted him for a bed.Early in this trick once when thesteward had left the room and Michael’s eager nose was within an inch of theprohibitedmorsel,Kwaque,playfullyinclined,reachedforthemorselhimselfandreceivedalaceratedhandfromthequickflashandclipofMichael’sjaws.

None of the tricks that he was ever eager to do for Steward, would Michael doforKwaque,despitethefactthatKwaquehadnotouchofmeannessor

viciousnessinhim.ThepointwasthatMichaelhadbeentrained,fromhisfirstdawn of consciousness, to differentiate between black men and white men.Black men were always the servants of white men—or such had been hisexperience; and always they were objects of suspicion, ever bent on wreakingmischief and requiring careful watching. The cardinal duty of a dog was toservehiswhitegodbykeepingavigilanteyeonallblacksthatcameabout.

Yet Michael permitted Kwaque to serve him in matters of food, water, andother offices, at first in the absence of Steward attending to his ship duties,and, later, at any time. For he realized, without thinking about it at all, thatwhatever Kwaque did for him, whatever food Kwaque spread for him, reallyproceeded, not from Kwaque, but from Kwaque’s master who was also hismaster. Yet Kwaque bore no grudge against Michael, and was himself sointerested in his lord’s welfare and comfort—this lord who had saved his lifethat terrible day on King William Island from the two grief-stricken pig-owners—thathecherishedMichaelforhislord’ssake.Seeingthedoggrowinginto his master’s affection, Kwaque himself developed a genuine affection forMichael—muchinthesamewaythatheworshippedanythingofthesteward’s, whether the shoes he polished for him, the clothes he brushed andcleanedforhim,orthesixbottlesofbeerheputintotheice-chesteachdayforhim.