Michael looked to Steward for verification, and Steward’s hand on his head gave adequate reply.

“We try again,” said the captain, very much awake and interested, with the back of his hand wiping the beer-foam from his moustache.  “Maybe he knows one an’ two.  How about three?  And four?”

“Just the same, Skipper.  He counts up to five, and knows more than five when it is more than five, though he don’t know the figures by name after five.”

“Oh, Hanson!” Captain Jorgensen bellowed across the bar-room to the cook of the Howard.  “Hey, you square-head!  Come and have a drink!”

Hanson came over and pulled up a chair.

“I pay for the drinks,” said the captain; “but you order, Daughtry.  See, now, Hanson, this is a trick bow-wow.  He can count better than you.  We are three.  Daughtry is ordering three beers.  The bow-wow hears three.  I hold up two fingers like this to the waiter.  He brings two.  The bow-wow raises hell with the waiter.  You see.”

All of which came to pass, Michael blissfully unappeasable until the order was filled properly.

“He can’t count,” was Hanson’s conclusion.  “He sees one man without beer.  That’s all.  He knows every man should ought to have a glass.  That’s why he barks.”

“Better than that,” Daughtry boasted.  “There are three of us.  We will order four.  Then each man will have his glass, but Killeny will talk to the waiter just the same.”

True enough, now thoroughly aware of the game, Michael made outcry to the waiter till the fourth glass was brought.  By this time many men were about the table, all wanting to buy beer and test Michael.

“Glory be,” Dag Daughtry solloquized.  “A funny world.  Thirsty one moment.  The next moment they’d fair drown you in beer.”

Several even wanted to buy Michael, offering ridiculous sums like fifteen and twenty dollars.

“I tell you what,” Captain Jorgensen muttered to Daughtry, whom he had drawn away into a corner.  “You give me that bow-wow, and I’ll smash Hanson right now, and you got the job right away—­come to work in the morning.”

Into another corner the proprietor of the Pile-drivers’ Home drew Daughtry to whisper to him: 

“You stick around here every night with that dog of yourn.  It makes trade.  I’ll give you free beer any time and fifty cents cash money a night.”

It was this proposition that started the big idea in Daughtry’s mind.  As he told Michael, back in the room, while Kwaque was unlacing his shoes: 

“It’s this way Killeny.  If you’re worth fifty cents a night and free beer to that saloon keeper, then you’re worth that to me . . . and more, my son, more.  ‘Cause he’s lookin’ for a profit.  That’s why he sells beer instead of buyin’ it.  An’, Killeny, you won’t mind workin’ for me, I know.  We need the money.  There’s Kwaque, an’ Mr. Greenleaf, an’ Cocky, not even mentioning you an’ me, an’ we eat an awful lot.  An’ room-rent’s hard to get, an’ jobs is harder.  What d’ye say, son, to-morrow night you an’ me hustle around an’ see how much coin we can gather?”