“My word, that fella dog no fright along me.”

But age wearied sooner of the play, and Bashti put an end to it by rapping Jerry heavily behind the ear and stretching him out stunned.  The spectacle of the puppy, so alive and raging the moment before, and, the moment after, lying as if dead, caught Bashti’s speculative fancy.  The stick, with a single sharp rap of it, had effected the change.  Where had gone the anger and wit of the puppy?  Was that all it was, the flame of the splinter that could be quenched by any chance gust of air?  One instant Jerry had raged and suffered, snarled and leaped, willed and directed his actions.  The next instant he lay limp and crumpled in the little death of unconsciousness.  In a brief space, Bashti knew, consciousness, sensation, motion, and direction would flow back into the wilted little carcass.  But where, in the meanwhile, at the impact of the stick, had gone all the consciousness, and sensitiveness, and will?

Bashti sighed wearily, and wearily wrapped the heads in their grass-mat coverings—­all but Van Horn’s; and hoisted them up in the air to hang from the roof-beams—­to hang as he debated, long after he was dead and out if it, even as some of them had so hung from long before his father’s and his grandfather’s time.  The head of Van Horn he left lying on the floor, while he stole out himself to peer in through a crack and see what next the puppy might do.

Jerry quivered at first, and in the matter of a minute struggled feebly to his feet where he stood swaying and dizzy; and thus Bashti, his eye to the crack, saw the miracle of life flow back through the channels of the inert body and stiffen the legs to upstanding, and saw consciousness, the mystery of mysteries, flood back inside the head of bone that was covered with hair, smoulder and glow in the opening eyes, and direct the lips to writhe away from the teeth and the throat to vibrate to the snarl that had been interrupted when the stick smashed him down into darkness.

And more Bashti saw.  At first, Jerry looked about for his enemy, growling and bristling his neck hair.  Next, in lieu of his enemy, he saw Skipper’s head, and crept to it and loved it, kissing with his tongue the hard cheeks, the closed lids of the eyes that his love could not open, the immobile lips that would not utter one of the love-words they had been used to utter to the little dog.

Next, in profound desolation, Jerry set down before Skipper’s head, pointed his nose toward the lofty ridge-pole, and howled mournfully and long.  Finally, sick and subdued, he crept out of the house and away to the house of his devil devil master, where, for the round of twenty-four hours, he waked and slept and dreamed centuries of nightmares.

For ever after in Somo, Jerry feared that grass house of Bashti.  He was not in fear of Bashti.  His fear was indescribable and unthinkable.  In that house was the nothingness of what once was Skipper.  It was the token of the ultimate catastrophe to life that was wrapped and twisted into every fibre of his heredity.  One step advanced beyond this, Jerry’s uttermost, the folk of Somo, from the contemplation of death, had achieved concepts of the spirits of the dead still living in immaterial and supersensuous realms.