it.--Washee-washee like hell!--Here we are, Jerry. Stay with it. Hang
on, old boy, we'll get you.--Easy . . . easy. 'Vast washee."

And then, with amazing abruptness, Jerry saw the whaleboat dimly emerge
from the gloom close upon him, was blinded by the stab of the torch full
in his eyes, and, even as he yelped his joy, felt and recognized
Skipper's hand clutching him by the slack of the neck and lifting him
into the air.

He landed wet and soppily against Skipper's rain-wet chest, his tail
bobbing frantically against Skipper's containing arm, his body wriggling,
his tongue dabbing madly all over Skipper's chin and mouth and cheeks and
nose. And Skipper did not know that he was himself wet, and that he was
in the first shock of recurrent malaria precipitated by the wet and the
excitement. He knew only that the puppy-dog, given him only the previous
morning, was safe back in his arms.

While the boat's crew bent to the oars, he steered with the sweep between
his arm and his side in order that he might hold Jerry with the other
arm.

"You little son of a gun," he crooned, and continued to croon, over and
over. "You little son of a gun."

And Jerry responded with tongue-kisses, whimpering and crying as is the
way of lost children immediately after they are found. Also, he shivered
violently. But it was not from the cold. Rather was it due to his over-
strung, sensitive nerves.

Again on board, Van Horn stated his reasoning to the mate.