“Don’t forget the agreement,” Tom Haggin called back across the widening water.  “If aught happens you, Jerry’s to come back to me.”

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

Among the many words possessed by Jerry was his own name; and in the talk of 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 was happening to him.  He wriggled more determinedly, and Van Horn set him down on the deck.  He sprang to the rail with more quickness than was to be expected of an awkward puppy of six months, and not the quick attempt of Van Horn to cheek him would have succeeded.  But Jerry recoiled from the open water lapping the Arangi’s side.  The taboo was upon him.  It was the image of the log awash that was not a log but that was alive, luminous in his brain, that checked him.  It was not reason on his part, but inhibition which had become habit.

He plumped down on his bob tail, lifted golden muzzle skyward, and emitted a long puppy-wail of dismay and grief.

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

But Jerry was not to be reconciled.  While this indubitably was a white-skinned god, 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 Haggin wore 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 about his middle, just like any black, he wore a brilliant-coloured loin-cloth, that, like a kilt, fell nearly to his sunburnt knees.

Captain Van Horn was a handsome man and a striking man, although Jerry did not know it.  If ever a Holland Dutchman stepped out of a Rembrandt frame, Captain Van Horn was that one, despite the fact that he was New York born, as had been his knickerbocker ancestors before him clear back to the time when New York was not New York but New Amsterdam.  To complete his costume, a floppy felt hat, distinctly Rembrandtish in effect, perched half on his head and mostly over one ear; a sixpenny, white cotton undershirt covered his torso; and from a belt about his middle dangled a tobacco pouch, a sheath-knife, filled clips of cartridges, and a huge automatic pistol in a leather holster.

On the beach, Biddy, who had hushed her grief, lifted it again when she heard Jerry’s wail.  And Jerry, desisting a moment to listen, heard Michael beside her, barking his challenge, and saw, without being conscious of it, Michael’s withered ear with its persistent upward cock.  Again, while Captain Van Horn and the mate, Borckman, gave orders, and while the Arangi’s mainsail and spanker began to rise up the masts, Jerry loosed all his heart of woe in what Bob told Derby on the beach was the “grandest vocal effort” he had ever heard from any dog, and that, except for being a bit thin, Caruso didn’t have anything on Jerry.  But the song was too much for Haggin, who, as soon as he had landed, whistled Biddy to him and strode rapidly away from the beach.