"Skipper." That was the name he had heard the mate repeatedly call
Captain Van Horn. And just as Jerry knew that when a human called
"Michael," that the call referred to Michael and not to Biddy, or
Terrence, or himself, so he knew that _Skipper_ was the name of the two-
legged white master of this new floating world.

"That isn't just a dog," was Van Horn's conclusion to the mate. "There's
a sure enough human brain there behind those brown eyes. He's six months
old. Any boy of six years would be an infant phenomenon to learn in five
minutes all that he's just learned. Why, Gott-fer-dang, a dog's brain
has to be like a man's. If he does things like a man, he's got to think
like a man."





CHAPTER IV


The companionway into the main cabin was a steep ladder, and down this,
after his meal, Jerry was carried by the captain. The cabin was a long
room, extending for the full width of the _Arangi_ from a lazarette aft
to a tiny room for'ard. For'ard of this room, separated by a tight
bulkhead, was the forecastle where lived the boat's crew. The tiny room
was shared between Van Horn and Borckman, while the main cabin was
occupied by the three-score and odd return boys. They squatted about and
lay everywhere on the floor and on the long low bunks that ran the full
length of the cabin along either side.