Jerry of the Islands E-Book

Jack London

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

Beschreibung

Jerry of the Islands
By Jack London
Publisher: ShadowPOET
Jerry of the Islands
CHAPTER I
Not until Mister Haggin abruptly picked him up under one arm and stepped into the sternsheets of the waiting whaleboat, did Jerry dream that anything untoward was to happen to him. Mister Haggin was Jerry’s beloved master, and had been his beloved master for the six months of Jerry’s life. Jerry did not know Mister Haggin as “master,” for “master” had no place in Jerry’s vocabulary, Jerry being a smooth-coated, golden-sorrel Irish terrier.
But in Jerry’s vocabulary, “Mister Haggin” possessed all the definiteness of sound and meaning that the word “master” possesses in the vocabularies of humans in relation to their dogs. “Mister Haggin” was the sound Jerry had always heard uttered by Bob, the clerk, and by Derby, the foreman on the plantation, when they addressed his master. Also, Jerry had always heard the rare visiting two-legged man-creatures such as came on the Arangi, address his master as Mister Haggin.
But dogs being dogs, in their dim, inarticulate, brilliant, and heroic-
worshipping ways misappraising humans, dogs think of their masters, and love their masters, more than the facts warrant. “Master” means to them, as “Mister” Haggin meant to Jerry, a deal more, and a great deal more, than it means to humans. The human considers himself as “master” to his dog, but the dog considers his master “God.”
Now “God” was no word in Jerry’s vocabulary, despite the fact that he already possessed a definite and fairly large vocabulary. “Mister Haggin” was the sound that meant “God.” In Jerry’s heart and head, in the mysterious centre of all his activities that is called consciousness, the sound, “Mister Haggin,” occupied the same place that “God” occupies in human consciousness. By word and sound, to Jerry, “Mister Haggin” had the same connotation that “God” has to God-worshipping humans. In short, Mister Haggin was Jerry’s God.
And so, when Mister Haggin, or God, or call it what one will with the limitations of language, picked Jerry up with imperative abruptness, tucked him under his arm, and stepped into the whaleboat, whose black crew immediately bent to the oars, Jerry was instantly and nervously aware that the unusual had begun to happen. Never before had he gone out on board the Arangi, which he could see growing larger and closer to each lip-hissing stroke of the oars of the blacks.
Only an hour before, Jerry had come down from the plantation house to the beach to see the Arangi depart. Twice before, in his half-year of life, had he had this delectable experience. Delectable it truly was, running up and down the white beach of sand-pounded coral, and, under the wise guidance of Biddy and Terrence, taking part in the excitement of the beach and even adding to it.
There was the nigger-chasing. Jerry had been born to hate niggers. His first experiences in the world as a puling puppy, had taught him that Biddy, his mother, and his father Terrence, hated niggers. A nigger was something to be snarled at. A nigger, unless he were a house-boy, was something to be attacked and bitten and torn if he invaded the compound. Biddy did it. Terrence did it. In doing it, they served their God—Mister Haggin. Niggers were two-legged lesser creatures who toiled and slaved for their two-legged white lords, who lived in the labour barracks afar off, and who were so much lesser and lower that they must not dare come near the habitation of their lords.

Leseprobe

JerryoftheIslands

ByJackLondon

Publisher: ShadowPOET

JERRYOFTHEISLANDS

CHAPTERI

Not until Mister Haggin abruptly picked him up under one arm and steppedinto the sternsheets of the waiting whaleboat, did Jerry dream that anythinguntoward was to happen to him. Mister Haggin was Jerry’s beloved master,and had been his beloved master for the six months of Jerry’s life. Jerry didnot know Mister Haggin as “master,” for “master” had no place in Jerry’svocabulary,Jerrybeingasmooth-coated,golden-sorrelIrishterrier.

But in Jerry’s vocabulary, “Mister Haggin” possessed all the definiteness ofsound and meaning that the word “master” possesses in the vocabularies ofhumans in relation to their dogs. “Mister Haggin” was the sound Jerry hadalways heard uttered by Bob, the clerk, and by Derby, the foreman on theplantation, when they addressed his master. Also, Jerry had always heard therarevisitingtwo-leggedman-creaturessuchascameontheArangi,addresshismasterasMisterHaggin.

Butdogsbeingdogs,intheirdim,inarticulate,brilliant,andheroic-

worshippingwaysmisappraisinghumans,dogsthinkoftheirmasters,andlovetheirmasters,morethanthefactswarrant.“Master”meanstothem,as“Mister” Haggin meant to Jerry, a deal more, and a great deal more, than itmeanstohumans.Thehumanconsidershimselfas“master”tohisdog,butthedogconsidershismaster“God.”

Now“God”wasnowordinJerry’svocabulary,despitethefactthathealreadypossessed a definite and fairly large vocabulary. “Mister Haggin” was thesound that meant “God.” In Jerry’s heart and head, in the mysterious centre ofall his activities that is called consciousness, the sound, “Mister Haggin,”occupied the same place that “God” occupies in human consciousness. Byword and sound, to Jerry, “Mister Haggin” had the same connotation that“God” has to God-worshipping humans. In short, Mister Haggin was Jerry’sGod.

Andso,whenMisterHaggin,orGod,orcallitwhatonewillwiththelimitations of language, picked Jerry up with imperative abruptness, tuckedhimunderhisarm,andsteppedintothewhaleboat,whoseblackcrewimmediately bent to the oars, Jerry was instantly and nervously aware that theunusual had begun to happen. Never before had he gone out on board theArangi, which he could see growing larger and closer to each lip-hissingstrokeoftheoarsoftheblacks.

Only an hour before, Jerry had come down from the plantation house to thebeach to see the Arangi depart. Twice before, in his half-year of life, had hehad this delectable experience. Delectable it truly was, running up and downthe white beach of sand-pounded coral, and, under the wise guidance of BiddyandTerrence,takingpartintheexcitementofthebeachandevenaddingtoit.

There was the nigger-chasing. Jerry had been born to hate niggers. His firstexperiences in the world as a puling puppy, had taught him that Biddy, hismother, and his father Terrence, hated niggers. A nigger was something to besnarled at. A nigger, unless he were a house-boy, was something to be attackedand bitten and torn if he invaded the compound. Biddy did it. Terrence did it.In doing it, they served their God—Mister Haggin. Niggers were two-leggedlesser creatures who toiled and slaved for their two-legged white lords, wholived in the labour barracks afar off, and who were so much lesser and lowerthattheymustnotdarecomenearthehabitationoftheirlords.

And nigger-chasing was adventure. Not long after he had learned to sprawl,Jerry had learned that.One took his chances.As long as Mister Haggin, orDerby,orBob,wasabout,theniggerstooktheirchasing.Butthereweretimeswhenthewhitelordswerenotabout.Thenitwas“’Wareniggers!”Onemustdare to chase only with due precaution. Because then, beyond the white lord’seyes, the niggers had a way, not merely of scowling and muttering, but ofattackingfour-leggeddogswithstonesandclubs.Jerryhadseenhismother

so mishandled, and, ere he had learned discretion, alone in the high grass hadbeenhimselfclub-mauledbyGodarmy,theblackwhoworeachinadoor-knobsuspendedonhischestfromhisneckonastringofsennitbraidedfromcocoanutfibre.More.Jerryrememberedanotherhigh-grassadventure,whenheandhisbrotherMichaelhadfoughtOwmi,anotherblackdistinguishableforthecoggedwheelsofanalarmclockonhischest.Michaelhadbeensoseverelystruckonhisheadthatforeverafterhisleftearhadremainedsoreandhadwitheredintoapeculiarwiltedandtwistedupwardcock.

Still more. There had been his brother Patsy, and his sister Kathleen, who haddisappearedtwomonthsbefore,whohadceasedandnolongerwere.Thegreatgod, Mister Haggin, had raged up and down the plantation. The bush had beensearched. Half a dozen niggers had been whipped. AndMister Haggin hadfailedtosolvethemysteryofPatsy’sandKathleen’sdisappearance.ButBiddyand Terrence knew. So did Michael and Jerry. The four-months’ old Patsy andKathleen had gone into the cooking-pot at the barracks, and their puppy-softskins had been destroyed in the fire. Jerry knew this, as did his father andmother and brother, for they had smelled the unmistakable burnt-meat smell,and Terrence, in his rage of knowledge, had even attacked Mogom the house-boy,andbeenreprimandedandcuffedbyMisterHaggin,whohadnotsmelledand did not understand, and who had always to impress discipline on allcreaturesunderhisroof-tree.

Butonthebeach,whentheblacks,whosetermsofservicewereupcamedown with their trade-boxes on their heads to depart on the Arangi, was thetime when nigger-chasing was not dangerous. Old scores could be settled, andit was the last chance, for the blacks who departed on the Aranginever cameback. As an instance, this very morning Biddy, remembering a secret maulingatthehandsofLerumie,laidteethintohisnakedcalfandthrewhimsprawlinginto the water, trade-box, earthly possessions and all, and then laughed at him,sureintheprotectionofMisterHagginwhogrinnedattheepisode.

Then, too, therewas usually atleast one bush-dogon the Arangiat whichJerry and Michael, from the beach, could bark their heads off. Once, Terrence,whowasnearlyaslargeasanAiredaleandfullyaslion-hearted—TerrencetheMagnificent,asTomHaggincalledhim—hadcaughtsuchabush-dogtrespassingonthebeachandgivenhimadelightfulthrashing,inwhichJerryandMichael,andPatsyandKathleen,whowereatthetimealive,hadjoinedwith many shrill yelpsand sharp nips. Jerryhadneverforgottentheecstasyofthehair,unmistakablydoggyinscent,whichhadfilledhismouthathisonesuccessfulnip.Bush-dogsweredogs—herecognizedthemashiskind;buttheyweresomehowdifferentfromhisownlordlybreed,differentandlesser,justastheblackswerecomparedwithMisterHaggin,Derby,andBob.

ButJerrydidnotcontinuetogazeatthenearingArangi.Biddy,wisewith

previous bitter bereavements, had sat down on the edge of the sand, her fore-feet in the water, and was mouthing her woe. That this concerned him, Jerryknew, for her grief tore sharply, albeit vaguely, at his sensitive, passionateheart. What it presaged he knew not, save that it was disaster and catastropheconnectedwithhim.Ashelookedbackather,rough-coatedandgrief-stricken, he could see Terrence hovering solicitously near her. He, too, wasrough-coated, as was Michael, and as Patsy and Kathleen had been, Jerrybeingtheonesmooth-coatedmemberofthefamily.

Further, although Jerry did not know it and Tom Haggin did, Terrence was aroyal lover and a devoted spouse. Jerry, from his earliest impressions, couldremember the way Terrence had of running with Biddy, miles and miles alongthe beaches or through the avenues of cocoanuts, side by side with her, bothwith laughing mouths of sheer delight. As these were the only dogs, besideshis brothers and sisters and the several eruptions of strange bush-dogs thatJerry knew, it did not enter his head otherwise than that this was the way ofdogs,maleandfemale,weddedandfaithful.ButTomHagginknewitsunusualness. “Proper affinities,” he declared, and repeatedly declared, withwarmvoiceandmoisteyesofappreciation.“Agentleman,thatTerrence,andafour-legged proper man. A man-dog, if there ever was one, four-square as thelegs on the four corners of him. And prepotent! My word! His blood’d breedtrue for a thousand generations, and the cool head and the kindly brave heartofhim.”

Terrence did not voice his sorrow, if sorrow he had; but his hovering aboutBiddy tokened his anxiety for her.Michael, however, yielding to thecontagion,satbesidehismotherandbarkedangrilyoutacrosstheincreasingstretchofwaterashewouldhavebarkedatanydangerthatcreptandrustledinthejungle.This,too,sanktoJerry’sheart,addingweighttohissureintuitionthatdirefate,heknewnotwhat,wasuponhim.

For his six months of life, Jerry knew a great deal and knew very little. Heknew, without thinking about it, without knowing that he knew, why Biddy,the wise as well as the brave, did not act upon all the message that her heartvoicedtohim,andspringintothewaterandswimafterhim.Shehadprotectedhim like a lioness when the big puarka (which, in Jerry’s vocabulary, alongwithgruntsandsqueals,wasthecombinationofsound,orword,for“pig”)hadtriedtodevourhimwherehewascorneredunderthehigh-piledplantationhouse. Like a lioness, when the cook-boy had struck him with a stick to drivehim out of the kitchen, had Biddy sprung upon the black, receiving withoutwinceorwhimperonestraightblowfromthestick,andthendowninghimandmaulinghimamonghispotsandpansuntildragged(forthefirsttimesnarling) away by the unchiding Mister Haggin, who; however, administeredsharpwordstothecook-boyfordaringtolifthandagainstafour-leggeddog

belongingtoagod.

Jerry knew why his mother did not plunge into the water after him. The saltsea, as well as the lagoons that led out of the salt sea, were taboo. “Taboo,” asword or sound, had no place in Jerry’s vocabulary. But its definition, orsignificance, was there in the quickest part of his consciousness. He possesseda dim, vague, imperative knowingness that it was not merely not good, butsupremelydisastrous,leadingtothemistilyglimpsedsenseofutterendingnessfor a dog, for any dog, to go into the water where slipped and slid andnoiselessly paddled, sometimes on top, sometimes emerging from the depths,greatscalymonsters,huge-jawedandhorribly-toothed,thatsnappeddownandengulfed a dog in an instant just as the fowls of Mister Haggin snapped andengulfedgrainsofcorn.

Often he had heard his father and mother, on the safety of the sand, bark andrage their hatred of those terrible sea-dwellers, when, close to the beach, theyappeared on the surface like logs awash.“Crocodile” was no wordinJerry’svocabulary.Itwasanimage,animageofalogawashthatwasdifferentfromanyloginthatit wasalive.Jerry,whoheard,registered,andrecognizedmanywordsthatwereastrulytoolsofthoughttohimastheyweretohumans,butwho,byinarticulatenessofbirthandbreed,couldnotutterthesemanywords,neverthelessinhismentalprocesses,usedimagesjustasarticulatemenusewordsintheirownmentalprocesses.Andafterall,articulatemen,intheactofthinking,willynillyuseimagesthatcorrespondtowordsandthatamplifywords.

Perhaps, in Jerry’s brain, the rising into the foreground of consciousness of animage of a log awash connoted more intimate and fuller comprehension of thethingbeingthoughtabout,thandidtheword“crocodile,”anditsaccompanyingimage,intheforegroundofahuman’sconsciousness.ForJerryreally did know more about crocodiles than the average human. He couldsmell a crocodile farther off and more differentiatingly than could any man,thancouldevenasalt-waterblackorabushmansmellone.Hecouldtellwhena crocodile, hauled up from the lagoon, lay without sound or movement, andperhapsasleep,ahundredfeetawayonthefloormatofjungle.

He knew more of the language of crocodiles than did any man. He had bettermeans and opportunities of knowing. He knew their many noises that were asgrunts and slubbers. He knew their anger noises, their fear noises, their foodnoises, their love noises. And these noises were as definitely words in hisvocabulary as are words in a human’s vocabulary. And these crocodile noiseswere tools of thought. By them he weighed and judged and determined hisown consequent courses of action, just like any human; or, just like anyhuman,lazilyresolveduponnocourseofaction,butmerelynotedandregisteredaclearcomprehensionofsomethingthatwasgoingonabouthim

thatdidnotrequireacorrespondenceofactiononhispart.

And yet, what Jerry did not know was very much. He did not know the size ofthe world.He did not know that this Meringe Lagoon, backed by high,forested mountains and fronted and sheltered by the off-shore coral islets, wasanythingelsethantheentireworld.HedidnotknowthatitwasamerefractionalpartofthegreatislandofYsabel,thatwasagainoneislandofathousand,manyofthemgreater,thatcomposedtheSolomonIslandsthatmenmarkedonchartsasagroupofspecksinthevastitudeofthefar-westernSouthPacific.

It was true, there was a somewhere else or a something beyond of which hewas dimly aware. But whatever it was, it was mystery. Out of it, things thathadnotbeen,suddenlywere.Chickensandpuarkasandcats,thathehadneverseen before, had a way of abruptly appearing on Meringe Plantation. Once,even, had there been an eruption of strange four-legged, horned and hairycreatures,theimagesofwhich,registeredinhisbrain,wouldhavebeenidentifiableinthebrainsofhumanswithwhathumansworded“goats.”

Itwasthesamewaywiththeblacks.Outoftheunknown,fromthesomewhere and something else, too unconditional for him to know any of theconditions,instantlytheyappeared,full-statured,walkingaboutMeringePlantation with loin-cloths about their middles and bone bodkins through theirnoses, and being put to work by Mister Haggin, Derby, and Bob. That theirappearance was coincidental with the arrival of the Arangi was an associationthat occurred as a matter of course in Jerry’s brain. Further, he did not bother,save that there was a companion association, namely, that their occasionaldisappearances into the beyond was likewise coincidental with the Arangi’sdeparture.

Jerry did not query these appearances and disappearances. It never entered hisgolden-sorrel head to be curious about the affair or to attempt to solve it. Heaccepted it in much the way he accepted the wetness of water and the heat ofthe sun. It was the way of life and of the world he knew. His hazy awarenesswasnomorethananawarenessofsomething—which,bytheway,corresponds very fairly with the hazy awareness of the average human of themysteries of birth and death and of the beyondness about which they have nodefinitenessofcomprehension.

For all that any man may gainsay, the ketch Arangi, trader and blackbirder intheSolomonIslands,mayhavesignifiedinJerry’smindasmuchthemysterious boat that traffics between the two worlds, as, at one time, the boatthat Charon sculled across the Styx signified to the human mind. Out of thenothingness men came. Into the nothingness they went. And they came andwentalwaysontheArangi.

And to the Arangi, this hot-white tropic morning, Jerry went on the whaleboatunder the arm of his Mister Haggin, while on the beach Biddy moaned herwoe, and Michael, not sophisticated, barked the eternal challenge of youth totheUnknown.

CHAPTERII

From the whaleboat, up the low side of the Arangi, and over her six-inch railof teak to her teak deck, was but a step, and Tom Haggin made it easily withJerry still under his arm. The deck was cluttered with an exciting crowd.Excitingthecrowdwouldhavebeentountravelledhumansofcivilization,andexciting it was to Jerry; although to Tom Haggin and Captain Van Horn it wasamerecommonplaceofeverydaylife.

The deck was small because the Arangi was small. Originally a teak-built,gentleman’syacht,brass-fitted,copper-fastened,angle-ironed,sheathedinman-of-war copper and with a fin-keel of bronze, she had been sold into theSolomon Islands’ trade for the purpose of blackbirding or nigger-running.Underthelaw,however,thistrafficwasdignifiedbybeingcalled“recruiting.”

The Arangi was a labour-recruit ship that carried the new-caught, cannibalblacks from remote islands to labour on the new plantations where white menturned dank and pestilential swamp and jungle into rich and stately cocoanutgroves. The Arangi’s two masts were of Oregon cedar, so scraped and hot-paraffined that they shone like tan opals in the glare of sun. Her excessive sailplanenabledhertosaillikeawitch,and,onoccasion,gaveCaptainVanHorn,hiswhitemate,andhisfifteenblackboat’screwasmuchastheycouldhandle.She was sixty feet over all, and the cross beams of her crown deck had notbeen weakened by deck-houses. The only breaks—and no beams had been cutforthem—werethemaincabinskylightandcompanionway,theboobyhatchfor’ardoverthetinyforecastle,andthesmallhatchaftthatletdownintothestore-room.

Andonthissmalldeck,inadditiontothecrew,werethe“return”niggersfromthree far-flung plantations. By “return” was meant that their three years ofcontractlabourwasup,andthat,accordingtocontract,theywerebeingreturnedtotheirhomevillagesonthewildislandofMalaita.Twentyofthem

—familiar, all, to Jerry—were from Meringe; thirty of them came from theBay of a Thousand Ships, in the Russell Isles; and the remaining twelve werefrom Pennduffryn on the east coast of Guadalcanar. In addition to these—andthey were all on deck, chattering and piping in queer, almost elfish, falsettovoices—were the two white men, Captain Van Horn and his Danish mate,Borckman,makingatotalofseventy-ninesouls.

“Thought your heart ’d failed you at the last moment,” was Captain VanHorn’s greeting, a quick pleasure light glowing into his eyes as they notedJerry.

“It was sure near to doin’ it,” Tom Haggin answered. “It’s only for you I’d adone it, annyways. Jerry’s the best of the litter, barrin’ Michael, of course, thetwo of them bein’ all that’s left and no better than them that was lost. Now thatKathleenwasasweetdog,thespitofBiddyifshe’dlived.—Here,take’m.”

With a jerk of abruptness, he deposited Jerry in Van Horn’s arms and turnedawayalongthedeck.

“An’ if bad luck comes to him I’ll never forgive you, Skipper,” he flungroughlyoverhisshoulder.

“They’llhavetotakemyheadfirst,”theskipperchuckled.

“An’ not unlikely, my brave laddy buck,” Haggin growled. “Meringe owesSomo four heads, three from the dysentery, an’ another wan from a tree fallin’onhimthelastfortnight.Hewasthesonofachiefatthat.”

“Yes, and there’s two heads more that the Arangi owes Somo,” Van Hornnodded.“You recollect, down to the south’ard last year, a chap namedHawkins was lost in his whaleboat running the Arli Passage?”Haggin,returningalongthedeck,nodded.“Twoofhisboat’screwwereSomoboys.I’drecruitedthemforUgiPlantation.Withyourboys,thatmakessixheadstheArangiowes.Butwhatofit?There’sonesalt-watervillage,acrostontheweather coast, where the Arangi owes eighteen. I recruited them for Aolo, andbeingsalt-watermentheyputthemontheSandflythatwaslostonthewaytotheSantaCruz.They’vegotajack-potoverthereontheweathercoast—myword,theboythatcouldgetmyheadwouldbeasecondCarnegie!Ahundredandfiftypigsandshellmoneynoendthevillage’scollectedforthechapthatgetsmeanddelivers.”

“Andtheyain’t—yet,”Hagginsnorted.“Nofear,”wasthecheerfulretort.

“You talk like Arbuckle used to talk,” Haggin censured. “Manny’s the timeI’ve heard him string it off. Poor old Arbuckle. The most sure and mostprecautious chap that ever handled niggers. He never went to sleep withoutspreadin’ a box of tacks on the floor, and when it wasn’t them it was crumplednewspapers. I remember me well, bein’ under the same roof at the time onFlorida, when a big tomcat chased a cockroach into the papers. And it wasblim, blam, blim, six times an’ twice over, with his two big horse-pistols, an’the house perforated like a cullender. Likewise there was a dead tom-cat. Hecould shoot in the dark with never an aim, pullin’ trigger with the secondfingerandpointingwiththefirstfingerlaidstraightalongthebarrel.

“No, sir, my laddy buck. He was the bully boy with the glass eye. The niggerdidn’t live that’d lift his head. But they got ’m. They got ’m. He lastedfourteen years, too. It was his cook-boy. Hatcheted ’m before breakfast. An’it’swellIrememberoursecondtripintothebushafterwhatwasleftof’m.”

“Isawhisheadafteryou’dturneditovertotheCommissioneratTulagi,”VanHornsupplemented.

“An’thepeaceful,quiet,everydayfaceofhimonit,withalmostthesameoldsmileI’dseenathousandtimes.Itdriedon’mthatwayoverthesmokin’fire.Buttheygot’m,ifitdidtakefourteenyears.There’smanny’stheheadthatgoestoMalaita,manny’sthetimeuntooken;but,liketheoldpitcher,it’stookenintheend.”

“But I’ve got their goat,” the captain insisted. “When trouble’s hatching, I gostraight to them and tell them what. They can’t get the hang of it. Think I’vegotsomepowerfuldevil-devilmedicine.”

Tom Haggin thrust out his hand in abrupt good-bye, resolutely keeping hiseyesfromdroppingtoJerryintheother’sarms.

“Keep your eye on my return boys,” he cautioned, as he went over the side,“till you land the last mother’s son of ’m. They’ve got no cause to love Jerryor his breed, an’ I’d hate ill to happen ’m at a nigger’s hands. An’ in the darkofthenight’tislikeasnothecandoafare-you-welloverside.Don’t take youreyeoff’mtillyou’requitofthelastof’m.”

At sight of big Mister Haggin deserting him and being pulled away in thewhaleboat, Jerry wriggled and voiced his anxiety in a low, whimpering whine.Captain Van Horn snuggled him closer in his arm with a caress of his freehand.

“Don’t forget the agreement,” Tom Haggin called back across the wideningwater.“Ifaughthappensyou,Jerry’stocomebacktome.”

“I’ll make a paper to that same and put it with the ship’s articles,” was VanHorn’sreply.

Among the many words possessed by Jerry was his own name; and in the talkof the two men he had recognised it repeatedly, and he was aware, vaguely,that the talk was related to the vague and unguessably terrible thing that washappening to him. He wriggled more determinedly, and Van Horn set himdown on the deck. He sprang to the rail with more quickness than was to beexpected of an awkward puppy of six months, and not the quick attempt ofVan Horn to cheek him would have succeeded. But Jerry recoiled from theopen water lapping the Arangi’s side. The taboo was upon him. It was theimage of the log awash that was not a log but that was alive, luminous in hisbrain,thatcheckedhim.Itwasnotreasononhispart,butinhibitionwhichhad

becomehabit.

Heplumpeddownonhisbobtail,liftedgoldenmuzzleskyward,andemittedalongpuppy-wailofdismayandgrief.

“It’s all right, Jerry, old man, brace up and be a man-dog,” Van Horn soothedhim.

ButJerrywasnottobereconciled.Whilethisindubitablywasawhite-skinnedgod, it was not his god. Mister Haggin was his god, and a superior god at that.Even he, without thinking about it at all, recognized that. His Mister Hagginwore pants and shoes. This god on the deck beside him was more like a black.Not only did he not wear pants, and was barefooted and barelegged, but abouthis middle, just like any black, he wore a brilliant-coloured loin-cloth, that,likeakilt,fellnearlytohissunburntknees.

CaptainVanHornwasahandsomemanandastrikingman,althoughJerrydidnot know it. If ever a Holland Dutchman stepped out of a Rembrandt frame,CaptainVanHornwasthatone,despitethefactthathewasNewYorkborn,ashad been his knickerbocker ancestors before him clear back to the time whenNew York was not New York but New Amsterdam. To complete his costume,a floppy felt hat, distinctly Rembrandtish in effect, perched half on his headandmostlyoveroneear;asixpenny,whitecottonundershirtcoveredhistorso;and from a belt about his middle dangled a tobacco pouch, a sheath-knife,filledclipsofcartridges,andahugeautomaticpistolinaleatherholster.

On the beach, Biddy, who had hushed her grief, lifted it again when she heardJerry’swail.AndJerry,desistingamomenttolisten,heardMichaelbesideher,barkinghischallenge,andsaw,withoutbeingconsciousofit,Michael’swithered ear with its persistent upward cock. Again, while Captain Van Hornand the mate, Borckman, gave orders, and while the Arangi’s mainsail andspanker began to rise up the masts, Jerry loosed all his heart of woe in whatBobtoldDerbyonthebeachwasthe“grandestvocaleffort”hehadeverheardfromanydog,andthat,exceptforbeingabitthin,Carusodidn’thaveanything on Jerry. But the song was too much for Haggin, who, as soon as hehadlanded,whistledBiddytohimandstroderapidlyawayfromthebeach.

Atsightofherdisappearing,JerrywasguiltyofevenmoreCaruso-likeeffects, which gave great joy to a Pennduffryn return boy who stood besidehim. He laughed and jeered at Jerry with falsetto chucklings that were morelike the jungle-noises of tree-dwelling creatures, half-bird and half-man, thanof a man, all man, and therefore a god. This served as an excellent counter-irritant. Indignation that a mere black should laugh at him mastered Jerry, andthe next moment his puppy teeth, sharp-pointed as needles, had scored theastonished black’s naked calf in long parallel scratches from each of whichleapedtheinstantblood.Theblacksprangawayintrepidation,buttheblood

of Terrence the Magnificent was true in Jerry, and, like his father before him,hefollowedup,slashingtheblack’sothercalfintoaruddypattern.

At this moment, anchor broken out and headsails running up, Captain VanHorn, whose quick eye had missed no detail of the incident, with an order totheblackhelmsmanturnedtoapplaudJerry.

“Go to it, Jerry!” he encouraged. “Get him! Shake him down! Sick him! Gethim!Gethim!”

Theblack,indefence,aimedakickatJerry,who,leapingininsteadofaway—anotherinheritancefromTerrence—avoidedthebarefootandprintedafurtherred series of parallel lines on the dark leg. This was too much, and the black,afraid more of Van Horn than of Jerry, turned and fled for’ard, leaping tosafety on top of the eight Lee-Enfield rifles that lay on top of the cabinskylight and that were guarded by one member of the boat’s crew. About theskylight Jerry stormed, leaping up and falling back, until Captain Van Horncalledhimoff.

“Some nigger-chaser, that pup, some nigger-chaser!” Van Horn confided toBorckman,ashebenttopatJerryandgivehimduerewardofpraise.

And Jerry, under this caressing hand of a god, albeit it did not wear pants,forgotforamomentlongerthefatethatwasuponhim.

“He’salion-dog—morelikeanAiredalethananIrishterrier,”VanHornwenton to his mate, still petting.“Look at the size of him already.Look at theboneofhim.Somechestthat.He’sgottheendurance.Andhe’llbesomedogwhenhegrowsuptothosefeetofhis.”

Jerry had just remembered his grief and was starting a rush across the deck totherailtogazeatMeringegrowingsmallereverysecondinthedistance,whena gust of the South-east Trade smote the sails and pressed the Arangi down.Anddownthedeck,slantedforthemomenttoforty-fivedegrees,Jerryslippedandslid,vainlyclawingatthesmoothsurfaceforahold.Hefetchedupagainst the foot of the mizzenmast, while Captain Van Horn, with the sailor’seyeforthecoralpatchunderhisbow,gavetheorder“Harda-lee!”

Borckman and the black steersman echoed his words, and, as the wheel spundown, the Arangi, with the swiftness of a witch, rounded into the wind andattained a momentary even keel to the flapping of her headsails and a shiftingofheadsheets.

Jerry, still intent on Meringe, took advantage of the level footing to recoverhimself and scramble toward the rail. But he was deflected by the crash of themainsheet blocks on the stout deck-traveller, as the mainsail, emptied of thewind and feeling the wind on the other side, swung crazily across above him.Heclearedthedangerofthemainsheetwithawildleap(althoughnolesswild

hadbeenVanHorn’sleaptorescuehim),andfoundhimselfdirectlyunderthemainboom with the huge sail looming above him as if about to fall upon himandcrushhim.

It was Jerry’s first experience with sails of any sort. He did not know thebeasts, much less the way of them, but, in his vivid recollection, when he hadbeen a tiny puppy, burned the memory of the hawk, in the middle of thecompound, that had dropped down upon him from out of the sky. Under thatcolossal threatened impact he crouched down to the deck. Above him, fallingupon him like a bolt from the blue, was a winged hawk unthinkably vasterthan the one he had encountered. But in his crouch was no hint of cower. Hiscrouch was a gathering together, an assembling of all the parts of him underthe rule of the spirit of him, for the spring upward to meet in mid career thismonstrous,menacingthing.

But, the succeeding fraction of a moment, so that Jerry, leaping, missed eventhe shadow of it, the mainsail, with a second crash of blocks on traveller, hadswungacrossandfilledontheothertack.

Van Horn had missed nothing of it. Before, in his time, he had seen youngdogs frightened into genuine fits by their first encounters with heaven-filling,sky-obscuring, down-impending sails. This was the first dog he had seen leapwithbaredteeth,undismayed,tograpplewiththehugeunknown.

With spontaneity of admiration, Van Horn swept Jerry from the deck andgatheredhimintohisarms.

CHAPTERIII

Jerry quite forgot Meringe for the time being. As he well remembered, thehawk had been sharp of beak and claw. This air-flapping, thunder-crashingmonsterneededwatching.AndJerry,crouchingforthespringandeverstruggling to maintain his footing on the slippery, heeling deck, kept his eyesonthemainsailandutteredlowgrowlsatanydisplayofmovementonitspart.

The Arangi was beating out between the coral patches of the narrow channelinto the teeth of the brisk trade wind. This necessitated frequent tacks, so that,overhead, the mainsail was ever swooping across from port tack to starboardtackandbackagain,makingair-noisesliketheswishofwings,sharplyrat-tat-tattingitsreefpointsandloudlycrashingitsmainsheetgearalongthetraveller.Half a dozen times, as it swooped overhead, Jerry leaped for it, mouth open togrip,lipswrithedclearofthecleanpuppyteeththatshoneinthesunlikegemsofivory.

Failingineveryleap,Jerryachievedajudgment.Inpassing,itmustbenoted

that this judgment was only arrived at by a definite act of reasoning. Out of aseriesofobservationsofthething,inwhichithadthreatened,alwaysinthesameway,aseriesofattacks,hehadfoundthatithadnothurthimnorcomein contact with him at all. Therefore—although he did not stop to think that hewasthinking—itwasnotthedangerous,destroyingthinghehadfirstdeemedit.Itmightbewelltobewaryofit,thoughalreadyithadtakenitsplaceinhisclassificationofthingsthatappearedterriblebutwerenotterrible.Thus,hehadlearnednottofeartheroarofthewindamongthepalmswhenhelaysnugontheplantation-houseveranda,northeonslaughtofthewaves,hissingandrumblingintoharmlessfoamonthebeachathisfeet.

Many times, in the course of the day, alertly and nonchalantly, almost with aquizzical knowingness, Jerry cocked his head at the mainsail when it madesudden swooping movements or slacked and tautened its crashing sheet-gear.But he no longer crouched to spring for it. That had been the first lesson, andquicklymastered.

Having settled the mainsail, Jerry returned in mind to Meringe. But there wasno Meringe, no Biddy and Terrence and Michael on the beach; noMisterHaggin and Derby and Bob; no beach: no land with the palm-trees near andthe mountains afar off everlastingly lifting their green peaks into the sky.Always, to starboard or to port, at the bow or over the stern, when he stood upresting his fore-feet on the six-inch rail and gazing, he saw only the ocean,broken-faced and turbulent, yet orderly marching its white-crested seas beforethedriveofthetrade.

Had he had the eyes of a man, nearly two yards higher than his own from thedeck, and had they been the trained eyes of a man, sailor-man at that, Jerrycould have seen the low blur of Ysabel to the north and the blur of Florida tothe south, ever taking on definiteness of detail as the Arangisagged close-hauled, with a good full, port-tacked to the south-east trade. And had he hadthe advantage of the marine glasses with which Captain Van Horn elongatedthe range of his eyes, he could have seen, to the east, the far peaks of Malaitaliftinglife-shadowedpinkcloud-puffsabovethesea-rim.

But the present was very immediate with Jerry. He had early learned the ironlawoftheimmediate,andtoacceptwhatwaswhenitwas,ratherthantostrainafterfarotherthings.Theseawas.Thelandnolongerwas.TheArangicertainlywas,alongwiththelifethatclutteredherdeck.Andheproceededtogetacquaintedwithwhatwas—inshort,toknowandtoadjusthimselftohisnewenvironment.

His first discovery was delightful—a wild-dog puppy from the Ysabel bush,being taken back to Malaita by one of the Meringe return boys. In age theywere the same, but their breeding was different. The wild-dog was what hewas,awild-dog,cringingandsneaking,hisearsforeverdown,histailfor

everbetweenhislegs,foreverapprehendingfreshmisfortuneandill-treatment to fall on him, for ever fearing and resentful, fending off threatenedhurt with lips curling malignantly from his puppy fangs, cringing under ablow, squalling his fear and his pain, and ready always for a treacherous slashifluckandsafetyfavoured.

The wild-dog was maturer than Jerry, larger-bodied, and wiser in wickedness;but Jerry was blue-blooded, right-selected, and valiant. The wild-dog hadcome out of a selection equally rigid; but it was a different sort of selection.The bush ancestors from whom he had descended had survived by being fear-selected. They had never voluntarily fought against odds. In the open they hadnever attacked save when the prey was weak or defenceless. In place ofcourage, they had lived by creeping, and slinking, and hiding from danger.They had been selected blindly by nature, in a cruel and ignoble environment,where the prize of living was to be gained, in the main, by the cunning ofcowardice,and,onoccasion,bydesperatenessofdefencewheninacorner.

But Jerry had been love-selected and courage-selected.His ancestors hadbeen deliberately and consciously chosen by men, who, somewhere in theforgottenpast,hadtakenthewild-dogandmadeitintothethingtheyvisionedand admired and desired it to be. It must never fight like a rat in a corner,because it must never be rat-like and slink into a corner.Retreat must beunthinkable.Thedogsinthepastwhoretreatedhadbeenrejectedbymen.

They had not become Jerry’s ancestors.The dogs selected for Jerry’sancestors had been the brave ones, the up-standing and out-dashing ones, whoflewintothefaceofdangerandbattledanddied,butwhonevergaveground.And,sinceitisthewayofkindtobegetkind,JerrywaswhatTerrencewasbeforehim,andwhatTerrence’sforefathershadbeenforalongwayback.

So it was that Jerry, when he chanced upon the wild-dog stowed shrewdlyaway from the wind in the lee-corner made by the mainmast and the cabinskylight, did not stop to consider whether the creature was bigger or fiercerthanhe.Allheknewwasthatitwastheancientenemy—thewild-dogthathadnotcomeintothefiresofman.WithawildpaeanofjoythatattractedCaptainVanHorn’sall-hearingearsandall-seeingeyes,Jerrysprangtotheattack.Thewild puppy gained his feet in full retreat with incredible swiftness, but wascaught by the rush of Jerry’s body and rolled over and over on the slopingdeck. And as he rolled, and felt sharp teeth pricking him, he snapped andsnarled,alternatingsnarlswithwhimperingsandsquallingsofterror,pain,andabjecthumility.

And Jerry was a gentleman, which is to say he was a gentle dog. He had beenso selected. Because the thing did not fight back, because it was abject andwhining,becauseitwashelplessunderhim,heabandonedtheattack,disengaginghimselffromthetopofthetangleintowhichhehadslidinthelee