In truth, Kwaque, who never complained, was ailing fast.  A swelling, slow and sensationless at first, under his right arm-pit, had become a mild and unceasing pain.  No longer could he sleep a night through.  Although he lay on his left side, never less than twice, and often three and four times, the hurt of the swelling woke him.  Ah Moy, had he not long since been delivered back to China by the immigration authorities, could have told him the meaning of that swelling, just as he could have told Dag Daughtry the meaning of the increasing area of numbness between his eyes where the tiny, vertical, lion-lines were cutting more conspicuously.  Also, could he have told him what was wrong with the little finger on his left hand.  Daughtry had first diagnosed it as a sprain of a tendon.  Later, he had decided it was chronic rheumatism brought on by the damp and foggy Sun Francisco climate.  It was one of his reasons for desiring to get away again to sea where the tropic sun would warm the rheumatism out of him.

As a steward, Daughtry had been accustomed to contact with men and women of the upper world.  But for the first time in his life, here in the underworld of San Francisco, in all equality he met such persons from above.  Nay, more, they were eager to meet him.  They sought him.  They fawned upon him for an invitation to sit at his table and buy beer for him in whatever garish cabaret Michael was performing.  They would have bought wine for him, at enormous expense, had he not stubbornly stuck to his beer.  They were, some of them, for inviting him to their homes—­“An’ bring the wonderful dog along for a sing-song”; but Daughtry, proud of Michael for being the cause of such invitations, explained that the professional life was too arduous to permit of such diversions.  To Michael he explained that when they proffered a fee of fifty dollars, the pair of them would “come a-runnin’.”

Among the host of acquaintances made in their cabaret-life, two were destined, very immediately, to play important parts in the lives of Daughtry and Michael.  The first, a politician and a doctor, by name Emory—­Walter Merritt Emory—­was several times at Daughtry’s table, where Michael sat with them on a chair according to custom.  Among other things, in gratitude for such kindnesses from Daughtry, Doctor Emory gave his office card and begged for the privilege of treating, free of charge, either master or dog should they ever become sick.  In Daughtry’s opinion, Dr. Walter Merritt Emory was a keen, clever man, undoubtedly able in his profession, but passionately selfish as a hungry tiger.  As he told him, in the brutal candour he could afford under such changed conditions:  “Doc, you’re a wonder.  Anybody can see it with half an eye.  What you want you just go and get.  Nothing’d stop you except . . . "

“Except?”

“Oh, except that it was nailed down, or locked up, or had a policeman standing guard over it.  I’d sure hate to have anything you wanted.”