Up the stairs and on the main deck, he began to meet passengers.  Being white gods, he did not resent their addresses to him, though he did not linger and went out on the open deck where more of the favoured gods reclined in steamer-chairs.  Still no Kwaque or Steward.  Another flight of narrow, steep stairs invited, and he came out on the boat-deck.  Here, under the wide awnings, were many more of the gods—­many times more than he had that far seen in his life.

The for’ard end of the boat-deck terminated in the bridge, which, instead of being raised above it, was part of it.  Trotting around the wheel-house to the shady lee-side of it, he came upon his fate; for be it known that Captain Duncan possessed on board in addition to two fox-terriers, a big Persian cat, and that cat possessed a litter of kittens.  Her chosen nursery was the wheel-house, and Captain Duncan had humoured her, giving her a box for her kittens and threatening the quartermasters with all manner of dire fates did they so much as step on one of the kittens.

But Michael knew nothing of this.  And the big Persian knew of his existence before he did of hers.  In fact, the first he knew was when she launched herself upon him out of the open wheel-house doorway.  Even as he glimpsed this abrupt danger, and before he could know what it was, he leaped sideways and saved himself.  From his point of view, the assault was unprovoked.  He was staring at her with bristling hair, recognizing her for what she was, a cat, when she sprang again, her tail the size of a large man’s arm, all claws and spitting fury and vindictiveness.

This was too much for a self-respecting Irish terrier.  His wrath was immediate with her second leap, and he sprang to the side to avoid her claws, and in from the side to meet her, his jaws clamping together on her spinal column with a jerk while she was still in mid-air.  The next moment she lay sprawling and struggling on the deck with a broken back.

But for Michael this was only the beginning.  A shrill yelling, rather than yelping, of more enemies made him whirl half about, but not quick enough.  Struck in flank by two full-grown fox-terriers, he was slashed and rolled on the deck.  The two, by the way, had long before made their first appearance on the Makambo as little puppies in Dag Daughtry’s coat pockets—­Daughtry, in his usual fashion, having appropriated them ashore in Sydney and sold them to Captain Duncan for a guinea apiece.

By this time, scrambling to his feet, Michael was really angry.  In truth, it was raining cats and dogs, such belligerent shower all unprovoked by him who had picked no quarrels nor even been aware of his enemies until they assailed him.  Brave the fox-terriers were, despite the hysterical rage they were in, and they were upon him as he got his legs under him.  The fangs of one clashed with his, cutting the lips of both of them, and the lighter