belong you. Killeny Boy, savvee! Killeny Boy. Killeny Boy."

As Kwaque removed his shoes and helped him undress, Daughtry regarded
Michael with sleepy eyes.

"I've got you, laddy," he announced, as he stood up and swayed toward
bed. "I've got your name, an' here's your number--I got that, too: _high-
strung but reasonable_. It fits you like the paper on the wall.

"High-strung but reasonable, that's what you are, Killeny Boy,
high-strung but reasonable," he continued to mumble as Kwaque helped to
roll him into his bunk.

Kwaque returned to his polishing. His lips stammered and halted in the
making of noiseless whispers, as, with corrugated brows of puzzlement, he
addressed the steward:

"Marster, what name stop 'm along that fella dog?"

"Killeny Boy, you kinky-head man-eater, Killeny Boy, Killeny Boy," Dag
Daughtry murmured drowsily. "Kwaque, you black blood-drinker, run n'
fetch 'm one fella bottle stop 'm along icey-chestis."

"No stop 'm, marster," the black quavered, with eyes alert for something
to be thrown at him. "Six fella bottle he finish altogether."

The steward's sole reply was a snore.

The black, with the twisted hand of leprosy and with a barely perceptible
infiltration of the same disease thickening the skin of the forehead