He shared breakfast with Skipper, who, instead of eating, washed down with a cup of coffee fifty grains of quinine wrapped in a cigarette paper, and who complained to the mate that he would have to get under the blankets and sweat out the fever that was attacking him. Despite his chill, and despite his teeth that were already beginning to chatter3 while the burning sun extracted the moisture in curling mist-wreaths from the deck planking, Van Horn cuddled Jerry in his arms and called him princeling, and prince, and a king, and a son of kings.
For Van Horn had often listened to the recitals4 of Jerry’s pedigree by Tom Haggin, over Scotch-and-sodas, when it was too pestilentially hot to go to bed. And the pedigree was as royal-blooded as was possible for an Irish terrier to possess, whose breed, beginning with the ancient Irish wolf-hound, had been moulded and established by man in less than two generations of men.
There was Terrence the Magnificent—descended5, as Van Horn remembered, from the American-bred Milton Droleen, out of the Queen of County Antrim, Breda Muddler, which royal bitch, as every one who is familiar with the stud book knows, goes back as far as the almost mythical7 Spuds, with along the way no primrose8 dallyings with black-and-tan Killeney Boys and Welsh nondescripts. And did not Biddy trace to Erin, mother and star of the breed, through a long descendant out of Breda Mixer, herself an ancestress of Breda Muddler? Nor could be omitted from the purple record the later ancestress, Moya Doolen.
So Jerry knew the ecstasy9 of loving and of being loved in the arms of his love-god, although little he knew of such phrases as “king’s son” and “son of kings,” save that they connoted love for him in the same way that Lerumie’s hissing10 noises connoted hate. One thing Jerry knew without knowing that he knew, namely, that in the few hours he had been with Skipper he loved him more than he had loved Derby and Bob, who, with the exception of Mister Haggin, were the only other white-gods he had ever known. He was not conscious of this. He merely loved, merely acted on the prompting of his heart, or head, or whatever organic or anatomical part of him that developed the mysterious, delicious, and insatiable hunger called “love.”
Skipper went below. He went all unheeding of Jerry, who padded softly at his heels until the companionway was reached. Skipper was unheeding of Jerry because of the fever that wrenched11 his flesh and chilled his bones, that made his head seem to swell12 monstrously13, that glazed14 the world to his swimming eyes and made him walk feebly and totteringly like a drunken man or a man very aged15. And Jerry sensed that something was wrong with Skipper.
Skipper, beginning the babblings of delirium16 which alternated with silent moments of control in order to get below and under blankets, descended the ladder-like stairs, and Jerry, all-yearning, controlled himself in silence and watched the slow descent with the hope that when Skipper reached the bottom he would raise his arms and lift him down. But Skipper was too far gone to remember that Jerry existed. He staggered, with wide-spread arms to keep from falling, along the cabin floor for’ard to the bunk18 in the tiny stateroom.
Jerry was truly of a kingly line. He wanted to call out and beg to be taken down. But he did not. He controlled himself, he knew not why, save that he was possessed19 by a nebulous awareness20 that Skipper must be considered as a god should be considered, and that this was no time to obtrude21 himself on Skipper. His heart was torn with desire, although he made no sound, and he continued only to yearn17 over the companion combing and to listen to the faint sounds of Skipper’s progress for’ard.
But even kings and their descendants have their limitations, and at the end of a quarter of an hour Jerry was ripe to cease from his silence. With the going below of Skipper, evidently in great trouble, the light had gone out of the day for Jerry. He might have stalked the wild-dog, but no inducement lay there. Lerumie passed by unnoticed, although he knew he could bully22 him and make him give deck space. The myriad23 scents24 of the land entered his keen nostrils25, but he made no note of them. Not even the flopping26, bellying27 mainsail overhead, as the Arangi rolled becalmed, could draw a glance of quizzical regard from him.
Just as it was tremblingly imperative28 that Jerry must suddenly squat29 down, point his nose at the zenith, and vocalize his heart-rending woe31, an idea came to him. There is no explaining how this idea came. No more can it be explained than can a human explain why, at luncheon32 to-day, he selects green peas and rejects string beans, when only yesterday he elected to choose string beans and to reject green peas. No more can it be explained than can a human judge, sentencing a convicted criminal and imposing33 eight years imprisonment34 instead of the five or nine years that also at the same time floated upward in his brain, explain why he categorically determined35 on eight years as the just, adequate punishment. Since not even humans, who are almost half-gods, can fathom36 the mystery of the genesis of ideas and the dictates37 of choice, appearing in their consciousness as ideas, it is not to be expected of a more dog to know the why of the ideas that animate38 it to definite acts toward definite ends.
And so Jerry. Just as he must immediately howl, he was aware that the idea, an entirely39 different idea, was there, in the innermost centre of the quick-thinkingness of him, with all its compulsion. He obeyed the idea as a marionette40 obeys the strings41, and started forthwith down the deck aft in quest of the mate.
He had an appeal to make to Borckman. Borckman was also a two-legged white-god. Easily could Borckman lift him down the precipitous ladder, which was to him, unaided, a taboo42, the violation43 of which was pregnant with disaster. But Borckman had in him little of the heart of love, which is understanding. Also, Borckman was busy. Besides overseeing the continuous adjustment, by trimming of sails and orders to the helmsman, of the Arangi to her way on the sea, and overseeing the boat’s crew at its task of washing deck and polishing brasswork, he was engaged in steadily44 nipping from a stolen bottle of his captain’s whiskey which he had stowed away in the hollow between the two sacks of yams lashed45 on deck aft the mizzenmast.
Borckman was on his way for another nip, after having thickly threatened to knock seven bells and the ten commandments out of the black at the wheel for faulty steering46, when Jerry appeared before him and blocked the way to his desire. But Jerry did not block him as he would have blocked Lerumie, for instance. There was no showing of teeth, no bristling47 of neck hair. Instead, Jerry was all placation48 and appeal, all softness of pleading in a body denied speech that nevertheless was articulate, from wagging tail and wriggling49 sides to flat-laid ears and eyes that almost spoke50, to any human sensitive of understanding.
But Borckman saw in his way only a four-legged creature of the brute51 world, which, in his arrogant52 brutalness he esteemed53 more brute than himself. All the pretty picture of the soft puppy, instinct with communicativeness, bursting with tenderness of petition, was veiled to his vision. What he saw was merely a four-legged animal to be thrust aside while he continued his lordly two-legged progress toward the bottle that could set maggots crawling in his brain and make him dream dreams that he was prince, not peasant, that he was a master of matter rather than a slave of matter.
And thrust aside Jerry was, by a rough and naked foot, as harsh and unfeeling in its impact as an inanimate breaking sea on a beach-jut of insensate rock. He half-sprawled on the slippery deck, regained54 his balance, and stood still and looked at the white-god who had treated him so cavalierly. The meanness and unfairness had brought from Jerry no
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