an excellent counter-irritant.  Indignation that a mere black should laugh at him mastered Jerry, and the next moment his puppy teeth, sharp-pointed as needles, had scored the astonished black’s naked calf in long parallel scratches from each of which leaped the instant blood.  The black sprang away in trepidation, but the blood of Terrence the Magnificent was true in Jerry, and, like his father before him, he followed up, slashing the black’s other calf into a ruddy pattern.

At this moment, anchor broken out and headsails running up, Captain Van Horn, whose quick eye had missed no detail of the incident, with an order to the black helmsman turned to applaud Jerry.

“Go to it, Jerry!” he encouraged.  “Get him!  Shake him down!  Sick him!  Get him!  Get him!”

The black, in defence, aimed a kick at Jerry, who, leaping in instead of away—another inheritance from Terrence—avoided the bare foot and printed a further red series of parallel lines on the dark leg.  This was too much, and the black, afraid more of Van Horn than of Jerry, turned and fled for’ard, leaping to safety on top of the eight Lee-Enfield rifles that lay on top of the cabin skylight and that were guarded by one member of the boat’s crew.  About the skylight Jerry stormed, leaping up and falling back, until Captain Van Horn called him off.

“Some nigger-chaser, that pup, some nigger-chaser!” Van Horn confided to Borckman, as he bent to pat Jerry and give him due reward of praise.

And Jerry, under this caressing hand of a god, albeit it did not wear pants, forgot for a moment longer the fate that was upon him.

“He’s a lion-dog—more like an Airedale than an Irish terrier,” Van Horn went on to his mate, still petting.  “Look at the size of him already.  Look at the bone of him.  Some chest that.  He’s got the endurance.  And he’ll be some dog when he grows up to those feet of his.”

Jerry had just remembered his grief and was