No rough-and-ready surgery of the Del Mar¹ sort obtained at Cedarwild, else Michael would not have lived.  A real surgeon, skilful² and audacious, came very close to vivisecting him as he radically³ repaired the ruin of a shoulder, doing things he would not have dared with a human but which proved to be correct for Michael.  
“He’ll always be lame⁴,” the surgeon said, wiping his hands and gazing down at Michael, who lay, for the most part of him, a motionless prisoner set in plaster of Paris.  “All the healing, and there’s plenty of it, will have to be by first intention.  If his temperature shoots up we’ll have to put him out of his misery⁵.  What’s he worth?”
 
“He has no tricks,” Collins answered.  “Possibly fifty dollars, and certainly not that now.  Lame dogs are not worth teaching tricks to.”
 
Time was to prove both men wrong.  Michael was not destined⁶ to permanent lameness⁷, although in after-years his shoulder was always tender, and, on occasion, when the weather was damp, he was compelled to ease it with a slight limp.  On the other hand, he was destined to appreciate to a great price and to become the star performer Harry⁸ Del Mar had predicted of him.
 
In the meantime he lay for many weary days in the plaster and abstained⁹ from raising a dangerous temperature.  The care taken of him was excellent.  But not out of love and affection was it given.  It was merely a part of the system at Cedarwild which made the institution such a success.  When he was taken out of the plaster, he was still denied that instinctive¹² pleasure which all animals take in licking their wounds, for shrewdly arranged bandages were wrapped and buckled¹³ on him.  And when they were finally removed, there were no wounds to lick; though deep in the shoulder was a pain that required months in which to die out.
 
Harris Collins bothered him no more with trying to teach him tricks, and, one day, loaned him as a filler-in to a man and woman who had lost three of their dog-troupe¹⁴ by pneumonia¹⁵.
 
“If he makes out you can have him for twenty dollars,” Collins told the man, Wilton Davis.
 
“And if he croaks¹⁶?” Davis queried¹⁷.
 
Collins shrugged¹⁸ his shoulders.  “I won’t sit up nights worrying about him.  He’s unteachable.”
 
And when Michael departed from Cedarwild in a crate¹⁹ on an express wagon²⁰, he might well have never returned, for Wilton Davis was notorious among trained-animal men for his cruelty to dogs.  Some care he might take of a particular dog with a particularly valuable trick, but mere¹⁰ fillers-in came too cheaply.  They cost from three to five dollars apiece.  Worse than that, so far as he was concerned, Michael had cost nothing.  And if he died it meant nothing to Davis except the trouble of finding another dog.
 
The first stage of Michael’s new adventure involved no unusual hardship, despite the fact that he was so cramped²¹ in his crate that he could not stand up and that the jolting²² and handling of the crate sent countless²³ twinges of pain shooting through his shoulder.  The journey was only to Brooklyn, where he was duly delivered to a second-rate theatre, Wilton Davis being so indifferent a second-rate animal man that he could never succeed in getting time with the big circuits.
 
The hardship of the cramped crate began after Michael had been carried into a big room above the stage and deposited with nearly a score of similarly crated²⁴ dogs.  A sorry lot they were, all of them scrubs and most of them spirit-broken and miserable²⁵.  Several had bad sores on their heads from being knocked about by Davis.  No care was taken of these sores, and they were not improved by the whitening that was put on them for concealment²⁶ whenever they performed.  Some of them howled lamentably²⁷ at times, and every little while, as if it were all that remained for them to do in their narrow cells, all of them would break out into barking.
 
Michael was the only one who did not join in these choruses.  Long since, as one feature of his developing moroseness²⁸, he had ceased from barking.  He had become too unsociable for any such demonstrations²⁹; nor did he pattern after the example of some of the sourer-tempered dogs in the room, who were for ever bickering³⁰ and snarling³¹ through the slats of their cages.  In fact, Michael’s sourness of temper had become too profound even for quarrelling.  All he desired was to be let alone, and of this he had a surfeit³² for the first forty-eight hours.
 
Wilton Davis had assembled his troupe ahead of time, so that the change of programme was five days away.  Having taken advantage of this to go to see his wife’s people over in New Jersey³³, he had hired one of the stage-hands to feed and water his dogs.  This the stage-hand would have done, had he not had the misfortune to get into an altercation³⁴ with a barkeeper which culminated³⁵ in a fractured skull³⁶ and an ambulance ride to the receiving hospital.  To make the situation perfect for what followed, the theatre was closed for three days in order to make certain alterations³⁷ demanded by the Fire Commissioners³⁸.
 
No one came near the room, and after several hours Michael grew aware of hunger and thirst.  The time passed, and the desire for food was supplanted³⁹ by the desire for water.  By nightfall the barking and yelping⁴¹ became continuous, changing through the long night hours to whimpering and whining⁴².  Michael alone made no sound, suffering dumbly in the bedlam⁴³ of misery.
 
Morning of the second day dawned; the slow hours dragged by to the second night; and the darkness of the second night drew down upon a scene behind the scenes, sufficient of itself to condemn⁴⁴ all trained-animal acts in all theatres and show-tents of all the world.  Whether Michael dreamed or was in semi-delirium, there is no telling; but, whichever it was, he lived most of his past life over again.  Again he played as a puppy on the broad verandas⁴⁵ of Mister Haggin’s plantation⁴⁶ bungalow⁴⁷ at Meringe; or, with Jerry, stalked the edges of the jungle down by the river-bank to spy upon the crocodiles; or, learning from Mister Haggin and Bob, and patterning after Biddy and Terrence, to consider black men as lesser⁴⁸ and despised gods who must for ever be kept strictly⁴⁹ in their places.
 
On the schooner⁵⁰ Eugénie he sailed with Captain Kellar, his second master, and on the beach at Tulagi lost his heart to Steward⁵¹ of the magic fingers and sailed away with him and Kwaque on the steamer Makambo.  Steward was most in his visions, against a hazy⁵² background of vessels⁵³, and of individuals like the Ancient Mariner⁵⁴, Simon Nishikanta, Grimshaw, Captain Doane, and little old Ah Moy.  Nor least of all did Scraps⁵⁵ appear, and Cocky, the valiant-hearted little fluff of life gallantly⁵⁶ bearing himself through his brief adventure in the sun.  And it would seem to Michael that on one side, clinging to him, Cocky talked farrago in his ear, and on the other side Sara clung to him and chattered⁵⁷ an interminable and incommunicable tale.  And then, deep about the roots of his ears would seem to prod⁵⁸ the magic, caressing⁵⁹ fingers of Steward the beloved.
 
“I just don’t I have no luck,” Wilton Davis mourned, gazing about at his dogs, the air still vibrating with the string of oaths he had at first ripped out.
 
“That comes of trusting a drunken stage-hand,” his wife remarked placidly⁶⁰.  “I wouldn’t be surprised if half of them died on us now.”
 
“Well, this is no time for talk,” Davis snarled⁶¹, proceeding⁶² to take off his coat.  “Get busy, my love, and learn the worst.  Water’s what they need.  I’ll give them a tub of it.”
 
Bucketful by bucketful, from the tap at the sink in the corner, he filled a large galvanized-iron tub.  At sound of the running water the dogs began whimpering and yelping and moaning.  Some tried to lick his hands with their swollen⁶³ tongues as he dragged them roughly out of their cages.  The weaker ones crawled and bellied⁶⁴ toward the tub, and were over-trod by the stronger ones.  There was not room for all, and the stronger ones drank first, with much fighting and squabbling and slashing⁶⁵ of fangs⁶⁶.  Into the foremost of this was Michael, slashing and being slashed⁶⁷, but managing to get hasty gulps⁶⁸ of the life-saving fluid.  Davis danced about among them, kicking right and left, so that all might have a chance.  His wife took a hand, laying about her with a mop.  It was a pandemonium⁶⁹ of pain, for, their parched⁷⁰ throats softened⁷¹ by the water, they were again able to yelp⁴⁰ and cry out loudly all their hurt and woe⁷².
 
Several were too weak to get to the water, so it was carried to them and doused⁷³ and splashed into their mouths.  It seemed that they would never be satisfied.  They lay in collapse⁷⁴ all about the room, but every little while one or another would crawl over to the tub and try to drink more.  In the meantime Davis had started a fire and filled a caldron with potatoes.
 
“The place stinks⁷⁵ like a den¹¹ of skunks,” Mrs. Davis observed, pausing from dabbing⁷⁶ the end of her nose with a powder-puff.  “Dearest, we’ll just have to wash them.”
 
“All right, sweetheart,” her husband agreed.  “And the quicker the better.  We can get through with it while the potatoes are boiling and cooling.  I’ll scrub them and you dry them.  Remember that pneumonia, and do it thoroughly⁷⁷.”
 
It was quick, rough bathing.  Reaching out for the dogs nearest him, he ............