“One, one, one, and one more day.”

“Ay!  Ay!  My father lasted till the fifth day, and then—­Jacky!”

“Here Jacky! what you want?”

“Go out on the hill and see whether any of the sheep are rubbing themselves.”

Jacky went out and soon returned.

“Not see one rub himself.”

A faint gleam lighted George’s sunken eye.  “That is a comfort.  I hope I shall be accepted not to have been a bad shepherd, for I may say ’I have given my life for my sheep.’  Poor things.”

George dozed.  Toward evening he awoke, and there was Jacky just where he had seen him last.  “I didn’t think you had cared so much for me, Jacky, my boy.”

“Yes, care very much for you.  See, um make beef-water for you a good deal.”

And sure enough he had boiled down about forty pounds of beef and filled a huge calabash with the extract, which he set by George’s side.

“And why are you so fond of me, Jacky?  It isn’t on account of my saving your life, for you had forgotten that.  What makes you such a friend to me?”

“I tell you.  Often I go to tell you before, but many words dat a good deal trouble.  One—­when you make thunder the bird always die.  One—­you take a sheep so and hold him up high.  Um never see one more white fellow able do dat.  One—­you make a stone go and hit thing; other white fellow never hit.  One—­little horse come to you; other white fellow go to horse—­horse run away.  Little horse run to you, dat because you so good.  One—­Carlo fond of you.  All day now he come in and go out, and say so (imitating a dog’s whimper).  He so uncomfortable because you lie down so.  One—­when you speak to Jacky you not speak big like white fellow, you speak small and like a fiddle—­dat please Jacky’s ear.

“One—­when you look at Jacky always your face make like a hot day when dere no rain—­dat please Jacky’s eye; and so when Jacky see you stand up one day a good deal high and now lie down—­dat makes him uncomfortable; and when he see you red one day and white dis day—­dat make him uncomfortable a good deal; and when he see you so beautiful one day and dis day so ugly—­dat make him so uncomfortable, he afraid you go away and speak no more good words to Jacky—­and dat make Jacky feel a thing inside here (touching his breast), no more can breathe—­and want to do like the gin, but don’t know how.  Oh, dear! don’t know how!”

“Poor Jacky!  I do wish I had been kinder to you than I have.  Oh, I am very short of wind, and my back is very bad!”

“When black fellow bad in um back he always die,” said Jacky very gravely.

“Ay,” said George quietly.  “Jacky, will you do one or two little things for me now?”

“Yes, do um all.”

“Give me that little book that I may read it.  Thank you.  Jacky, this is the book of my religion; and it was given to me by one I love better than all the world.  I have disobeyed her—­I have thought too little of what is in this book and too much of this world’s gain.  God forgive me! and I think He will, because it was for Susan’s sake I was so greedy of gain.”