At sight of big Mister Haggin deserting him and being pulled away in the whaleboat, Jerry wriggled and voiced his anxiety in a low, whimpering whine.  Captain Van Horn snuggled him closer in his arm with a caress of his free hand.

“Don’t forget the agreement,” Tom Haggin called back across the widening water.  “If aught happens you, Jerry’s to come back to me.”

“I’ll make a paper to that same and put it with the ship’s articles,” was Van Horn’s reply.

Among the many words possessed by Jerry was his own name; and in the talk of the two men he had recognised it repeatedly, and he was aware, vaguely, that the talk was related to the vague and unguessably terrible thing that was happening to him.  He wriggled more determinedly, and Van Horn set him down on the deck.  He sprang to the rail with more quickness than was to be expected of an awkward puppy of six months, and not the quick attempt of Van Horn to cheek him would have succeeded.  But Jerry recoiled from the open water lapping the Arangi’s side.  The taboo was upon him.  It was the image of the log awash that was not a log but that was alive, luminous in his brain, that checked him.  It was not reason on his part, but inhibition which had become habit.

He plumped down on his bob tail, lifted golden muzzle skyward, and emitted a long puppy-wail of dismay and grief.

“It’s all right, Jerry, old man, brace up and be a man-dog,” Van Horn soothed him.

But Jerry was not to be reconciled.  While this indubitably was a white-skinned god, it was not his god.  Mister Haggin was his god, and a superior god at that.  Even he, without thinking about it at all, recognized that.  His Mister Haggin wore pants and shoes.  This god on the deck beside him was more like a black.  Not only did he not wear pants, and was barefooted and barelegged, but about his middle, just like any black, he wore a brilliant-coloured loin-cloth, that, like a kilt, fell nearly to his sunburnt knees.