But he ceased his yelping to listen to a new noise—­a thunderous slatting of canvas accompanied by shouts and cries.  He sensed, and sensed wrongly, that it boded ill, for he did not know that it was the mainsail being lowered on the run after Skipper had slashed the boom-tackle across with his sheath-knife.

As the pandemonium grew, he added his own yelping to it until he felt a fumbling hand without the blanket.  He stilled and sniffed.  No, it was not Skipper.  He sniffed again and recognized the person.  It was Lerumie, the black whom he had seen rolled on the beach by Biddy only the previous morning, who, still were recently, had kicked him on his stub of a tail, and who not more than a week before he had seen throw a rock at Terrence.

The rope yarn had been parted, and Lerumie’s fingers were feeling inside the blanket for him.  Jerry snarled his wickedest.  The thing was sacrilege.  He, as a white man’s dog, was taboo to all blacks.  He had early learned the law that no nigger must ever touch a white-god’s dog.  Yet Lerumie, who was all of evil, at this moment when the world crashed about their ears, was daring to touch him.

And when the fingers touched him, his teeth closed upon them.  Next, he was clouted by the black’s free hand with such force as to tear his clenched teeth down the fingers through skin and flesh until the fingers went clear.

Raging like a tiny fiend, Jerry found himself picked up by the neck, half-throttled, and flung through the air.  And while flying through the air, he continued to squall his rage.  He fell into the sea and went under, gulping a mouthful of salt water into his lungs, and came up strangling but swimming.  Swimming was one of the things he did not have to think about.  He had never had to learn to swim, any more than he had had to learn to breathe.  In fact, he had been compelled to learn to walk; but he swam as a matter of course.

The wind screamed about him.  Flying froth, driven on the wind’s breath, filled his mouth and nostrils and beat into his eyes, stinging and blinding him.  In the struggle to breathe he, all unlearned in the ways of the sea, lifted his muzzle high in the air to get out of the suffocating welter.  As a result, off the horizontal, the churning of his legs no longer sustained him, and he went down and under perpendicularly.  Again he emerged, strangling with more salt water in his windpipe.  This time, without reasoning it out, merely moving along the line of least resistance, which was to him the line of greatest comfort, he straightened out in the sea and continued so to swim as to remain straightened out.

Through the darkness, as the squall spent itself, came the slatting of the half-lowered mainsail, the shrill voices of the boat’s crew, a curse of Borckman’s, and, dominating all, Skipper’s voice, shouting: 

“Grab the leech, you fella boys!  Hang on!  Drag down strong fella!  Come in mainsheet two blocks!  Jump, damn you, jump!”