vermin, trying to knock them down with his paws. Occasionally he
succeeded and destroyed one; nor did the combat cease until all the
cockroaches, as if at another signal, disappeared into the many cracks,
leaving the room to him.

Quickly, his next thought was: Where is Skipper? He knew he was not in
the room, though he stood up on his hind-legs and investigated the low
bunk, his keen little nose quivering delightedly while he made little
sniffs of delight as he smelled the recent presence of Skipper. And what
made his nose quiver and sniff, likewise made his stump of a tail bob
back and forth.

_But_ _where_ _was_ _Skipper_? It was a thought in his brain that was as
sharp and definite as a similar thought would be in a human brain. And
it similarly preceded action. The door had been left hooked open, and
Jerry trotted out into the cabin where half a hundred blacks made queer
sleep-moanings, and sighings, and snorings. They were packed closely
together, covering the floor as well as the long sweep of bunks, so that
he was compelled to crawl over their naked legs. And there was no white
god about to protect him. He knew it, but was unafraid.

Having made sure that Skipper was not in the cabin, Jerry prepared for
the perilous ascent of the steep steps that were almost a ladder, then
recollected the lazarette. In he trotted and sniffed at the sleeping
girl in the cotton shift who believed that Van Horn was going to eat her
if he could succeed in fattening her.

Back at the ladder-steps, he looked up and waited in the hope that
Skipper might appear from above and carry him up. Skipper had passed
that way, he knew, and he knew for two reasons. It was the only way he