Whereupon, leaving Jerry on deck to stalk the wild-dog, Captain Van Horn
went below into the tiny stateroom and took a long drink from the very
bottle from which Borckman was stealing.

The stalking of the wild-dog became a game, at least to Jerry, who was so
made that his heart bore no malice, and who hugely enjoyed it. Also, it
gave him a delightful consciousness of his own mastery, for the wild-dog
always fled from him. At least so far as dogs were concerned, Jerry was
cock of the deck of the _Arangi_. It did not enter his head to query how
his conduct affected the wild-dog, though, in truth, he led that
individual a wretched existence. Never, except when Jerry was below, did
the wild one dare venture more than several feet from his retreat, and he
went about in fear and trembling of the fat roly-poly puppy who was
unafraid of his snarl.

In the late afternoon, Jerry trotted aft, after having administered
another lesson to the wild-dog, and found Skipper seated on the deck,
back against the low rail, knees drawn up, and gazing absently off to
leeward. Jerry sniffed his bare calf--not that he needed to identify it,
but just because he liked to, and in a sort of friendly greeting. But
Van Horn took no notice, continuing to stare out across the sea. Nor was
he aware of the puppy's presence.

Jerry rested the length of his chin on Skipper's knee and gazed long and
earnestly into Skipper's face. This time Skipper knew, and was
pleasantly thrilled; but still he gave no sign. Jerry tried a new tack.
Skipper's hand drooped idly, half open, from where the forearm rested on
the other knee. Into the part-open hand Jerry thrust his soft golden
muzzle to the eyes and remained quite still. Had he been situated to