“Never be ashamed of your ancestry.  An’ remember, God loves the Irish—­Kwaque!  Go fetch ’m two bottle beer fella stop ’m along icey-chestis!—­Why, the very mug of you, my lad, sticks out Irish all over it.” (Michael’s tail beat a tattoo.) “Now don’t be blarneyin’ me.  ‘Tis well I’m wise to your insidyous, snugglin’, heart-stealin’ ways.  I’ll have ye know my heart’s impervious.  ’Tis soaked too long this many a day in beer.  I stole you to sell you, not to be lovin’ you.  I could’ve loved you once; but that was before me and beer was introduced.  I’d sell you for twenty quid right now, coin down, if the chance offered.  An’ I ain’t goin’ to love you, so you can put that in your pipe ‘n’ smoke it.”

“But as I was about to say when so rudely interrupted by your ’fectionate ways—­”

Here he broke off to tilt to his mouth the opened bottle Kwaque handed him.  He sighed, wiped his lips with the back of his hand, and proceeded.

“’Tis a strange thing, son, this silly matter of beer.  Kwaque, the Methusalem-faced ape grinnin’ there, belongs to me.  But by my faith do I belong to beer, bottles ‘n’ bottles of it ‘n’ mountains of bottles of it enough to sink the ship.  Dog, truly I envy you, settin’ there comfortable-like inside your body that’s untainted of alcohol.  I may own you, and the man that gives me twenty quid will own you, but never will a mountain of bottles own you.  You’re a freer man than I am, Mister Dog, though I don’t know your name.  Which reminds me—­”

He drained the bottle, tossed it to Kwaque, and made signs for him to open the remaining one.

“The namin’ of you, son, is not lightly to be considered.  Irish, of course, but what shall it be?  Paddy?  Well may you shake your head.  There’s no smack of distinction to it.  Who’d mistake you for a hod-carrier?  Ballymena might do, but it sounds much like a lady, my boy.  Ay, boy you are.  ’Tis an idea.  Boy!  Let’s see.  Banshee Boy?  Rotten.  Lad of Erin!”

He nodded approbation and reached for the second bottle.  He drank and meditated, and drank again.

“I’ve got you,” he announced solemnly.  “Killeny is a lovely name, and it’s Killeny Boy for you.  How’s that strike your honourableness?—­high-soundin’, dignified as a earl or . . . or a retired brewer.  Many’s the one of that gentry I’ve helped to retire in my day.”

He finished his bottle, caught Michael suddenly by both jowls, and, leaning forward, rubbed noses with him.  As suddenly released, with thumping tail and dancing eyes, Michael gazed up into the god’s face.  A definite soul, or entity, or spirit-thing glimmered behind his dog’s eyes, already fond with affection for this hair-grizzled god who talked with him he knew not what, but whose very talking carried delicious and unguessable messages to his heart.

“Hey!  Kwaque, you!”

Kwaque, squatted on the floor, his hams on his heels, paused from the rough-polishing of a shell comb designed and cut out by his master, and looked up, eager to receive command and serve.