The morning the Makambo entered Sydney harbour, Captain Duncan had another try for Michael.  The port doctor’s launch was coming alongside, when he nodded up to Daughtry, who was passing along the deck:  
“Steward¹, I’ll give you twenty pounds.”
 
“No, sir, thank you, sir,” was Dag Daughtry’s answer.  “I couldn’t bear to part with him.”
 
“Twenty-five pounds, then.  I can’t go beyond that.  Besides, there are plenty more Irish terriers in the world.”
 
“That’s what I’m thinkin’, sir.  An’ I’ll get one for you.  Right here in Sydney.  An’ it won’t cost you a penny, sir.”
 
“But I want Killeny Boy,” the captain persisted.
 
“An’ so do I, which is the worst of it, sir.  Besides, I got him first.”
 
“Twenty-five sovereigns is a lot of money . . . for a dog,” Captain Duncan said.
 
“An’ Killeny Boy’s a lot of dog . . . for the money,” the steward retorted.  “Why, sir, cuttin’ out all sentiment, his tricks is worth more ’n that.  Him not recognizing me when I don’t want ’m to is worth fifty pounds of itself.  An’ there’s his countin’ an’ his singin’, an’ all the rest of his tricks.  Now, no matter how I got him, he didn’t have them tricks.  Them tricks are mine.  I taught him them.  He ain’t the dog he was when he come on board.  He’s a whole lot of me now, an’ sellin’ him would be like sellin’ a piece of myself.”
 
“Thirty pounds,” said the captain with finality.
 
“No, sir, thankin’ you just the same, sir,” was Daughtry’s refusal.
 
And Captain Duncan was forced to turn away in order to greet the port doctor coming over the side.
 
Scarcely had the Makambo passed quarantine, and while on her way up harbour to dock, when a trim man-of-war launch darted² in to her side and a trim lieutenant³ mounted the Makambo’s boarding-ladder.  His mission was quickly explained.  The Albatross, British cruiser of the second class, of which he was fourth lieutenant, had called in at Tulagi with dispatches from the High Commissioner⁴ of the English South Seas.  A scant⁵ twelve hours having intervened between her arrival and the Makambo’s departure, the Commissioner of the Solomons and Captain Kellar had been of the opinion that the missing dog had been carried away on the steamer.  Knowing that the Albatross would beat her to Sydney, the captain of the Albatross had undertaken to look up the dog.  Was the dog, an Irish terrier answering to the name of Michael, on board?
 
Captain Duncan truthfully admitted that it was, though he most unveraciously shielded Dag Daughtry by repeating his yarn⁶ of the dog coming on board of itself.  How to return the dog to Captain Kellar?—was the next question; for the Albatross was bound on to New Zealand.  Captain Duncan settled the matter.
 
“The Makambo will be back in Tulagi in eight weeks,” he told the lieutenant, “and I’ll undertake personally to deliver the dog to its owner.  In the meantime we’ll take good care of it.  Our steward has sort of adopted it, so it will be in good hands.”
 
* * * * *
 
“Seems we don’t either of us get the dog,” Daughtry commented resignedly, when Captain Duncan had explained the situation.
 
But when Daughtry turned his back and started off along the deck, his constitutional obstinacy⁷ tightened⁸ his brows so that the Shortlands planter, observing it, wondered what the captain had been rowing him about.
 
* * * * *
 
Despite his six quarts a day and all his easy-goingness of disposition⁹, Dag Daughtry possessed¹⁰ certain integrities.  Though he could steal a dog, or a cat, without a twinge of conscience, he could not but be faithful to his salt, being so made.  He could not draw wages for being a ship steward without faithfully performing the functions of ship steward.  Though his mind was firmly made up, during the several days of the Makambo in Sydney, lying alongside the Burns Philp Dock, he saw to every detail of the cleaning up after the last crowd of outgoing passengers, and to every detail of preparation for the next crowd of incoming passengers who had tickets bought for the passage far away to the coral seas and the cannibal isles¹¹.
 
In the midst of this devotion to his duty, he took a night off and part of two afternoons.  The night off was devoted¹² to the public-houses which sailors frequent, and where can be learned the latest gossip and news of ships and of men who sail upon the sea.  Such information did he gather, over many bottles of beer, that the next afternoon, hiring a small launch at a cost of ten shillings, he journeyed up the harbour to Jackson Bay, where lay the lofty-poled, sweet-lined, three-topmast American schooner¹³, the Mary Turner.
 
Once on board, explaining his errand, he was taken below into the main cabin, where he interviewed, and was interviewed by, a quartette of men whom Daughtry qualified¹⁴ to himself as “a rum bunch.”
 
It was because he had talked long with the steward who had left the ship, that Dag Daughtry recognized and identified each of the four men.  That, surely, was the “Ancient Mariner¹⁵,” sitting back and apart with washed eyes of such palest blue that they seemed a faded white.  Long thin wisps of silvery, unkempt hair framed his face like an aureole.  He was slender to emaciation¹⁶, cavernously checked, roll after roll of skin, no longer encasing flesh or muscle, hanging grotesquely¹⁷ down his neck and swathing the Adam’s apple so that only occasionally, with queer swallowing motions, did it peep out of the mummy-wrappings of skin and sink back again from view.
 
A proper ancient mariner, thought Daughtry.  Might be seventy-five, might just as well be a hundred and five, or a hundred and seventy-five.
 
Beginning at the right temple, a ghastly scar split the cheek-bone, sank into the depths of the hollow cheek, notched¹⁸ across the lower jaw¹⁹, and plunged²⁰ to disappearance²¹ among the prodigious²² skin-folds of the neck.  The withered²³ lobes²⁴ of both ears were perforated by tiny gypsy-like circles of gold.  On the skeleton fingers of his right hand were no less than five rings—not men’s rings, nor women’s, but foppish²⁵ rings—“that would fetch a price,” Daughtry adjudged.  On the left hand were no rings, for there were no fingers to wear them.  Only was there a thumb; and, for that matter, most of the hand was missing as well, as if it had been cut off by the same slicing edge that had cleaved²⁶ him from temple to jaw and heaven alone knew how far down that skin-draped neck.
 
The Ancient Mariner’s washed eyes seemed to bore right through Daughtry (or at least so Daughtry felt), and rendered him so uncomfortable as to make him casually²⁷ step to the side for the matter of a yard.  This was possible, because, a servant seeking a servant’s billet, he was expected to stand and face the four seated ones as if they were judges on the bench and he the felon²⁸ in the dock.  Nevertheless, the gaze of the ancient one pursued him, until, studying it more closely, he decided²⁹ that it did not reach to him at all.  He got the impression that those washed pale eyes were filmed with dreams, and that the intelligence, the thing, that dwelt within the skull³⁰, fluttered and beat against the dream-films and no farther.
 
“How much would you expect?” the captain was asking,—a most unsealike captain, in Daughtry’s opinion; rather, a spick-and-span, brisk little business-man or floor-walker just out of a bandbox.
 
“He shall not share,” spoke³¹ up another of the four, huge, raw-boned, middle-aged³², whom Daughtry identified by his ham-like hands as the California wheat-farmer described by the departed steward.
 
“Plenty for all,” the Ancient Mariner startled Daughtry by cackling shrilly³³.  “Oodles and oodles of it, my gentlemen, in cask and chest, in cask and chest, a fathom³⁴ under the sand.”
 
“Share—what, sir?” Daughtry queried³⁵, though well he knew, the other steward having cursed to him the day he sailed from San Francisco on a blind lay instead of straight wages.  “Not that it matters, sir,” he hastened to add.  “I spent a whalin’ voyage once, three years of it, an’ paid off with a dollar.  Wages for mine, an’ sixty gold a month, seein’ there’s only four of you.”
 
“And a mate,” the captain added.
 
“And a mate,” Daughtry repeated.  “Very good, sir.  An’ no share.”
 
“But yourself?” spoke up the fourth man, a huge-bulking, colossal-bodied, greasy-seeming grossness of flesh—the Armenian Jew and San Francisco pawnbroker³⁶ the previous steward had warned Daughtry about.  “Have you papers—letters of recommendation, the documents you receive when you are paid off before the shipping³⁷ commissioners³⁸?”
 
“I might ask, sir,” Dag Daughtry brazened it, “for your own papers.  This ain’t no regular cargo-carrier or passenger-carrier, no more than you gentlemen are a regular company of ship-owners, with regular offices, doin’ business in a regular way.  How do I know if you own the ship even, or that the charter ain’t busted<............