Jerry’s long-drawn howl of woe at sight and scent of all that was left of Skipper, roused Bashti from his reverie.  He looked at the sturdy, golden-brown puppy, and immediately included it in his reverie.  It was alive.  It was like man.  It knew hunger, and pain, anger and love.  It had blood in its veins, like man, that a thrust of a knife could make redly gush forth and denude it to death.  Like the race of man it loved its kind, and birthed and breast-nourished its young.  And passed.  Ay, it passed; for many a dog, as well as a human, had he, Bashti, devoured in his hey-dey of appetite and youth, when he knew only motion and strength, and fed motion and strength out of the calabashes of feasting.

But from woe Jerry went on into anger.  He stalked stiff-legged, with a snarl writhen on his lips, and with recurrent waves of hair-bristling along his back and up his shoulders and neck.  And he stalked not the head of Skipper, where rested his love, but Bashti, who held the head on his knees.  As the wild wolf in the upland pasture stalks the mare mother with her newly delivered colt, so Jerry stalked Bashti.  And Bashti, who had never feared death all his long life and who had laughed a joke with his forefinger blown off by the bursting flint-lock pistol, smiled gleefully to himself, for his glee was intellectual and in admiration of this half-grown puppy whom he rapped on the nose with a short, hardwood stick and compelled to keep distance.  No matter how often and fiercely Jerry rushed him, he met the rush with the stick, and chuckled aloud, understanding the puppy’s courage, marvelling at the stupidity of life that impelled him continually to thrust his nose to the hurt of the stick, and that drove him, by passion of remembrance of a dead man to dare the pain of the stick again and again.

This, too, was life, Bashti meditated, as he deftly rapped the screaming puppy away from him.  Four-legged life it was, young and silly and hot, heart-prompted, that was like any young man making love to his woman in the twilight, or like any young man fighting to the death with any other young man over a matter of passion, hurt pride, or thwarted desire.  As much as in the dead head of Van Horn or of any man, he realized that in this live puppy might reside the clue to existence, the solution of the riddle.

So he continued to rap Jerry on the nose away from him, and to marvel at the persistence of the vital something within him that impelled him to leap forward always to the stick that hurt him and made him recoil.  The valour and motion, the strength and the unreasoning of youth he knew it to be, and he admired it sadly, and envied it, willing to exchange for it all his lean grey wisdom if only he could find the way.

“Some dog, that dog, sure some dog,” he might have uttered in Van Horn’s fashion of speech.  Instead, in beche-de-mer, which was as habitual to him as his own Somo speech, he thought: