Michael, Brother of Jerry | Page 7

restless at such searching examination, but
Daughtry, in the midst of feeling out the lines and build of the thighs
and hocks, paused and took Michael's tail in his magic fingers,
exploring the muscles among which it rooted, pressing and prodding
the adjacent spinal column from which it sprang, and twisting it about
in a most daringly intimate way. And Michael was in an ecstasy,
bracing his hindquarters to one side or the other against the caressing
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
racing 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 solicitation for more of the blissful
ear-rubbing and tail-twisting. Daughtry caught him by the jowl instead
and slowly moved his head back and forth 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 testimony 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.
CHAPTER II

Dag Daughtry strolled along the beach, Michael at his heels or running
circles of delight around him at every repetition of that strange low
lip-noise, and paused just outside the circle of lantern light where dusky
forms laboured with landing cargo from the whale-boats and where the
Commissioner's clerk and the Makambo's super-cargo still wrangled
over the bill of lading. When Michael would have gone forward, the
man withstrained him with the same inarticulate, almost inaudible kiss.

For Daughtry did not care to be seen on such dog-stealing enterprises
and was planning how to get on board the steamer unobserved. He
edged around outside the lantern shine and went on along the beach to
the native village. As he had foreseen, all the able-bodied men were
down at the boat-landing working cargo. The grass houses seemed
lifeless, but at last, from one of them, came a challenge in the querulous,
high-pitched tones of age:
"What name?"
"Me walk about plenty too much," he replied in the beche-de-mer
English of the west South Pacific. "Me belong along steamer. Suppose
'm you take 'm me along canoe, washee-washee, me give 'm you fella
boy two stick tobacco."
"Suppose 'm you give 'm me ten stick, all right along me," came the
reply.
"Me give 'm five stick," the six-quart steward bargained. "Suppose 'm
you no like 'm five stick then