Still more.  There had been his brother Patsy, and his sister Kathleen, who had disappeared two months before, who had ceased and no longer were.  The great god, Mister Haggin, had raged up and down the plantation.  The bush had been searched.  Half a dozen niggers had been whipped.  And Mister Haggin had failed to solve the mystery of Patsy’s and Kathleen’s disappearance.  But Biddy and Terrence knew.  So did Michael and Jerry.  The four-months’ old Patsy and Kathleen had gone into the cooking-pot at the barracks, and their puppy-soft skins had been destroyed in the fire.  Jerry knew this, as did his father and mother 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, and been reprimanded and cuffed by Mister Haggin, who had not smelled and did not understand, and who had always to impress discipline on all creatures under his roof-tree.

But on the beach, when the blacks, whose terms of service were up came down with their trade-boxes on their heads to depart on the Arangi, was the time when nigger-chasing was not dangerous.  Old scores could be settled, and it was the last chance, for the blacks who departed on the Arangi never came back.  As an instance, this very morning Biddy, remembering a secret mauling at the hands of Lerumie, laid teeth into his naked calf and threw him sprawling into the water, trade-box, earthly possessions and all, and then laughed at him, sure in the protection of Mister Haggin who grinned at the episode.

Then, too, there was usually at least one bush-dog on the Arangi at which Jerry and Michael, from the beach, could bark their heads off.  Once, Terrence, who was nearly as large as an Airedale and fully as lion-hearted—­Terrence the Magnificent, as Tom Haggin called him—­had caught such a bush-dog trespassing on the beach and given him a delightful thrashing, in which Jerry and Michael, and Patsy and Kathleen, who were at the time alive, had joined with many shrill yelps and sharp nips.  Jerry had never forgotten the ecstasy of the hair, unmistakably doggy in scent, which had filled his mouth at his one successful nip.  Bush-dogs were dogs—­he recognized them as his kind; but they were somehow different from his own lordly breed, different and lesser, just as the blacks were compared with Mister Haggin, Derby, and Bob.

But Jerry did not continue to gaze at the nearing Arangi.  Biddy, wise with 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, Jerry knew, for her grief tore sharply, albeit vaguely, at his sensitive, passionate heart.  What it presaged he knew not, save that it was disaster and catastrophe connected with him.  As he looked back at her, rough-coated and grief-stricken, he could see Terrence hovering solicitously near her.  He, too, was rough-coated, as was Michael, and as Patsy and Kathleen had been, Jerry being the one smooth-coated member of the family.