In fact, an hour earlier, as the Makambo’s anchor was heaving out and while Captain Kellar was descending3 the port gang-plank, Michael was coming on board through a starboard port-hole. This was because Michael was inexperienced in the world, because he was expecting to meet Jerry on board this boat since the last he had seen of him was on a boat, and because he had made a friend.
Dag Daughtry was a steward4 on the Makambo, who should have known better and who would have known better and done better had he not been fascinated by his own particular and peculiar5 reputation. By luck of birth possessed6 of a genial7 but soft disposition8 and a splendid constitution, his reputation was that for twenty years he had never missed his day’s work nor his six daily quarts of bottled beer, even, as he bragged9, when in the German islands, where each bottle of beer carried ten grains of quinine in solution as a specific against malaria10.
The captain of the Makambo (and, before that, the captains of the Moresby, the Masena, the Sir Edward Grace, and various others of the queerly named Burns Philp Company steamers had done the same) was used to pointing him out proudly to the passengers as a man-thing novel and unique in the annals of the sea. And at such times Dag Daughtry, below on the for’ard deck, feigning11 unawareness12 as he went about his work, would steal side-glances up at the bridge where the captain and his passengers stared down on him, and his breast would swell13 pridefully, because he knew that the captain was saying: “See him! that’s Dag Daughtry, the human tank. Never’s been drunk or sober in twenty years, and has never missed his six quarts of beer per diem. You wouldn’t think it, to look at him, but I assure you it’s so. I can’t understand. Gets my admiration14. Always does his time, his time-and-a-half and his double-time over time. Why, a single glass of beer would give me heartburn and spoil my next good meal. But he flourishes on it. Look at him! Look at him!”
And so, knowing his captain’s speech, swollen15 with pride in his own prowess, Dag Daughtry would continue his ship-work with extra vigour16 and punish a seventh quart for the day in advertisement of his remarkable17 constitution. It was a queer sort of fame, as queer as some men are; and Dag Daughtry found in it his justification18 of existence.
Wherefore he devoted19 his energy and the soul of him to the maintenance of his reputation as a six-quart man. That was why he made, in odd moments of off-duty, turtle-shell combs and hair ornaments20 for profit, and was prettily21 crooked22 in such a matter as stealing another man’s dog. Somebody had to pay for the six quarts, which, multiplied by thirty, amounted to a tidy sum in the course of the month; and, since that man was Dag Daughtry, he found it necessary to pass Michael inboard on the Makambo through a starboard port-hole.
On the beach, that night at Tulagi, vainly wondering what had become of the whaleboat, Michael had met the squat23, thick, hair-grizzled ship’s steward. The friendship between them was established almost instantly, for Michael, from a merry puppy, had matured into a merry dog. Far beyond Jerry, was he a sociable24 good fellow, and this, despite the fact that he had known very few white men. First, there had been Mister Haggin, Derby and Bob, of Meringe; next, Captain Kellar and Captain Kellar’s mate of the Eugénie; and, finally, Harley Kennan and the officers of the Ariel. Without exception, he had found them all different, and delightfully25 different, from the hordes27 of blacks he had been taught to despise and to lord it over.
And Dag Daughtry had proved no exception from his first greeting of “Hello, you white man’s dog, what ’r’ you doin’ herein nigger country?” Michael had responded coyly with an assumption of dignified28 aloofness29 that was given the lie by the eager tilt30 of his ears and the good-humour that shone in his eyes. Nothing of this was missed by Dag Daughtry, who knew a dog when he saw one, as he studied Michael in the light of the lanterns held by black boys where the whaleboats were landing cargo31.
Two estimates the steward quickly made of Michael: he was a likable dog, genial-natured on the face of it, and he was a valuable dog. Because of those estimates Dag Daughtry glanced about him quickly. No one was observing. For the moment, only blacks stood about, and their eyes were turned seaward where the sound of oars32 out of the darkness warned them to stand ready to receive the next cargo-laden boat. Off to the right, under another lantern, he could make out the Resident Commissioner’s clerk and the Makambo’s super-cargo heatedly discussing some error in the bill of lading.
The steward flung another quick glance over Michael and made up his mind. He turned away casually33 and strolled along the beach out of the circle of lantern light. A hundred yards away he sat down in the sand and waited.
“Worth twenty pounds if a penny,” he muttered to himself. “If I couldn’t get ten pounds for him, just like that, with a thank-you-ma’am, I’m a sucker that don’t know a terrier from a greyhound.—Sure, ten pounds, in any pub on Sydney beach.”
And ten pounds, metamorphosed into quart bottles of beer, reared an immense and radiant vision, very like a brewery34, inside his head.
A scurry35 of feet in the sand, and low sniffings, stiffened36 him to alertness. It was as he had hoped. The dog had liked him from the start, and had followed him.
For Dag Daughtry had a way with him, as Michael was quickly to learn, when the man’s hand reached out and clutched him, half by the jowl, half by the slack of the neck under the ear. There was no threat in that reach, nothing tentative nor timorous37. It was hearty38, all-confident, and it produced confidence in Michael. It was roughness without hurt, assertion without threat, surety without seduction. To him it was the most natural thing in the world thus to be familiarly seized and shaken about by a total stranger, while a jovial39 voice muttered: “That’s right, dog. Stick around, stick around, and you’ll wear diamonds, maybe.”
Certainly, Michael had never met a man so immediately likable. Dag Daughtry knew, instinctively40 to be sure, how to get on with dogs. By nature there was no cruelty in him. He never exceeded in peremptoriness41, nor in petting. He did not overbid for Michael’s friendliness42. He did bid, but in a manner that conveyed no sense of bidding. Scarcely had he given Michael that introductory jowl-shake, when he released him and apparently43 forgot all about him.
He proceeded to light his pipe, using several matches as if the wind blew them out. But while they burned close up to his fingers, and while he made a simulation of prodigious44 puffing45, his keen little blue eyes, under shaggy, grizzled brows, intently studied Michael. And Michael, ears cocked and eyes intent, gazed at this stranger who seemed never to have been a stranger at all.
If anything, it was disappointment Michael experienced, in that this delightful26, two-legged god took no further notice of him. He even challenged him to closer acquaintance with an invitation to play, with an abrupt46 movement lifting his paws from the ground and striking them down, stretched out well before, his body bent47 down from the rump in such a curve that almost his chest touched the sand, his stump48 of a tail waving signals of good nature while he uttered a sharp, inviting49 bark. And the man was uninterested, pulling stolidly50 away at his pipe, in the darkness following upon the third match.
Never was there a more consummate51 love-making, with all the base intent of betrayal, than this cavalier seduction of Michael by the elderly, six-quart ship’s steward. When Michael, not entirely52 unwitting of the snub of the man’s lack of interest, stirred restlessly with a threat to depart, he had flung at him gruffly:
“Stick around, dog, stick around.”
Dag Daughtry chuckled53 to himself, as Michael, advancing, sniffed54 his trousers’ legs long and earnestly. And the man took advantage of his nearness to study him some more, lighting55 his pipe and running over the dog’s excellent lines.
“Some dog, some points,” he said aloud approvingly. “Say, dog, you could pull down ribbons like a candy-kid in any bench show anywheres. Only thing against you is that ear, and I could almost iron it out myself. A vet56. could do it.”
Carelessly he dropped a hand to Michael’s ear, and, with tips of fingers instinct with sensuous57 sympathy, began to manipulate the base of the ear where its roots bedded in the tightness of skin-stretch over the skull58. And Michael liked it. Never had a man’s hand been so intimate with his ear without hurting it. But these fingers were provocative59 only of physical pleasure so keen that he twisted and writhed60 his whole body in acknowledgment.
Next came a long, steady, upward pull of the ear, the ear slipping slowly through the fingers to the very tip of it while it tingled61 exquisitely62 down to its roots. Now to one ear, now to the other, this happened, and all the while the man uttered low words that Michael did not understand but which he accepted as addressed to him.
“Head all right, good ’n’ flat,” Dag Daughtry murmured, first sliding his fingers over it, and then lighting a match. “An’ no wrinkles, ’n’ some jaw63, good ’n’ punishing, an’ not a shade too full in the cheek or too empty.”
He ran his fingers inside Michael’s mouth and noted64 the strength and evenness of the teeth, measured the breadth of shoulders and depth of chest, and picked up a foot. In the light of another match he examined all four feet.
“Black, all black, every nail of them,” said Daughtry, “an’ as clean feet as ever a dog walked on, straight-out toes with the proper arch ’n’ small ’n’ not too small. I bet your daddy and your mother cantered away with the ribbons in their day.”
Michael was for growing restless at such searching examination, but Daughtry, in the midst of feeling out the lines and build of the thighs65 and hocks, paused and took Michael’s tail in his magic fingers, exploring the muscles among which it rooted, pressing and prodding66 the adjacent spinal67 column from which it sprang, and twisting it about in a most daringly intimate way. And Michael was in an ecstasy68, bracing69 his hindquarters to one side or the other against the caressing71 fingers. With open hands laid along his sides and partly under him, the man suddenly lifted him from the ground. But before he could feel alarm he was back on the ground again.
“Twenty-six or -seven—you’re over twenty-five right now, I’ll bet you on it, shillings to ha’pennies, and you’ll make thirty when you get your full weight,” Dag Daughtry told him. “But what of it? Lots of the judges fancy the thirty-mark. An’ you could always train off a few ounces. You’re all dog n’ all correct conformation. You’ve got the racing70 build and the fighting weight, an’ there ain’t no feathers on your legs.”
“No, sir, Mr. Dog, your weight’s to the good, and that ear can be ironed out by any respectable dog—doctor. I bet there’s a hundred men in Sydney right now that would fork over twenty quid for the right of calling you his.”
And then, just that Michael should not make the mistake of thinking he was being much made over, Daughtry leaned back, relighted his pipe, and apparently forgot his existence. Instead of bidding for good will, he was bent on making Michael do the bidding.
And Michael did, bumping his flanks against Daughtry’s knee; nudging his head against Daughtry’s hand, in solicitation72 for more of the blissful ear-rubbing and tail-twisting. Daughtry caught him by the jowl instead and slowly moved his head back and forth73 as he addressed him:
“What man’s dog are you? Maybe you’re a nigger’s dog, an’ that ain’t right. Maybe some nigger’s stole you, an’ that’d be awful. Think of the cruel fates that sometimes happens to dogs. It’s a damn shame. No white man’s stand for a nigger ownin’ the likes of you, an’ here’s one white man that ain’t goin’ to stand for it. The idea! A nigger ownin’ you an’ not knowin’ how to train you. Of course a nigger stole you. If I laid eyes on him right now I’d up and knock seven bells and the Saint Paul chimes out of ’m. Sure thing I would. Just show ’m to me, that’s all, an’ see what I’d do to him. The idea of you takin’ orders from a nigger an’ fetchin’ ’n’ carryin’ for him! No, sir, dog, you ain’t goin’ to do it any more. You’re comin’ along of me, an’ I reckon I won’t have to urge you.”
Dag Daughtry stood up and turned carelessly along the beach. Michael looked after him, but did not follow. He was eager to, but had received no invitation. At last Daughtry made a low kissing sound with his lips. So low was it that he scarcely heard it himself and almost took it on faith, or on the testimony74 of his lips rather than of his ears, that he had made it. No human being could have heard it across the distance to Michael; but Michael heard it, and sprang away after in a great delighted rush.
