During this time Jerry learned a new name for himself—­or, rather, an entire series of names for himself.  This was because of an aversion on Harley Kennan’s part against renaming a named thing.

“A name he must have had,” he argued to Villa.  “Haggin must have named him before he sailed on the Arangi.  Therefore, nameless he must be until we get back to Tulagi and find out his real name.”

“What’s in a name?” Villa had begun to tease.

“Everything,” her husband retorted.  “Think of yourself, shipwrecked, called by your rescuers ‘Mrs. Riggs,’ or ‘Mademoiselle de Maupin,’ or just plain ‘Topsy.’  And think of me being called ‘Benedict Arnold,’ or ’ Judas,’ or . . . or . . .  ‘Haman.’  No, keep him nameless, until we find out his original name.”

“Must call him something,” she objected.  “Can’t think of him without thinking something.”

“Then call him many names, but never the same name twice.  Call him ‘Dog’ to-day, and ‘Mister Dog’ to-morrow, and the next day something else.”

So it was, more by tone and emphasis and context of situation than by anything else, that Jerry came hazily to identify himself with names such as:  Dog, Mister Dog, Adventurer, Strong Useful One, Sing Song Silly, Noname, and Quivering Love-Heart.  These were a few of the many names lavished on him by Villa.  Harley, in turn, addressed him as:  Man-Dog, Incorruptible One, Brass Tacks, Then Some, Sin of Gold, South Sea Satrap, Nimrod, Young Nick, and Lion-Slayer.  In brief, the man and woman competed with each other to name him most without naming him ever the same.  And Jerry, less by sound and syllable than by what of their hearts vibrated in their throats, soon learned to know himself by any name they chose to address to him.  He no longer thought of himself as Jerry, but, instead, as any sound that sounded nice or was love-sounded.

His great disappointment (if “disappointment” may be considered to describe an unconsciousness of failure to realize the expected) was in the matter of language.  No one on board, not even Harley and Villa, talked Nalasu’s talk.  All Jerry’s large vocabulary, all his proficiency in the use of it, which would have set him apart as a marvel beyond all other dogs in the mastery of speech, was wasted on those of the Ariel.  They did not speak, much less guess, the existence of the whiff-whuff shorthand language which Nalasu had taught him, and which, Nalasu dead, Jerry alone knew of all living creatures in the world.

In vain Jerry tried it on the lady-god.  Sitting squatted on his haunches, his head bowed forward and held between her hands, he would talk and talk and elicit never a responsive word from her.  With tiny whines and thin whimperings, with whiffs and whuffs and growly sorts of noises down in his throat, he would try to tell her somewhat of his tale.  She was all meltingness of sympathy; she would hold her ear so near to the articulate mouth of him as almost to drown him in the flowing fragrance of her hair; and yet her brain told her nothing of what he uttered, although her heart surely sensed his intent.