"It was, Cookie, but I changed him into a live dog by crossing my
fingers. Mind your rabbit's foot. He might eat it, and then very
likely we'd have a ghost on our hands again. But I think he'll
stay a dog for the present."

"Yo' go 'long, Miss Jinny," said Cookie valiantly. "Yo' think I
scared of any ghos' what lower hissel to be a live white mong'ol
dog? Yere, yo' ki-yi, yo' bettah mek friends with ol' Cookie,
'cause he got charge o' de grub. Yere's a li'le fat ma'ow bone
what mebbe come off'n yo' own grandchile, but yo' ain' goin' to
mind dat now yo' is trans formulated dis yere way." And evidently
the reincarnated ghost-pig did not.

With the midday reunion my hour of distinction arrived. The tale
of the ghost-pig was told from the beginning by Cookie, with high
tributes to my courage in sallying forth in pursuit of the phantom.
Even those holding other views of the genesis of the white dog were
amazed at his presence on the island. In spite of Cookie's
aspersions, the creature was no mongrel, but a thoroughbred of
points. Not by any means a dog which some little South American
coaster might have abandoned here when it put in for water. The
most reasonable hypothesis seemed to be that he had belonged to the
copra gatherer, and was for some reason left behind on his master's
departure. But who that had loved a dog enough to make it the
companion of his solitude would go away and leave it? The thing
seemed to me incredible. Yet here, otherwise unaccounted for, was
the corporeal presence of the dog.

I had named the terrier in the first ten minutes of our
acquaintance. Crusoe was the designation by which he was presented