But he did not know this new god as Dag Daughtry. Kwaque called him marster; but Michael heard other white men so addressed by the blacks. Many blacks had he heard call Captain Kellar marster. It was Captain Duncan who called the steward Steward. Michael came to hear him, and his officers, and all the passengers, so call him; and thus, to Michael, his gods name was Steward, and for ever after he was to know him and think of him as Steward.
There was the question of his own name. The next evening after he came on board, Dag Daughtry talked it over with him. Michael sat on his haunches, the length of his lower jaw resting on Daughtrys knee, the while his eyes dilated, contracted and glowed, his ears ever pricking and repricking to listen, his stump tail thumping ecstatically on the floor.
Its this way, son, the steward told him. Your father and mother were Irish. Now dont be denying it, you rascal
This, as Michael, encouraged by the unmistakable geniality and kindness in the voice, wriggled his whole body and thumped double knocks of delight with his tail. Not that he understood a word of it, but that he did understand the something behind the speech that informed the string of sounds with all the mysterious likeableness that white gods possessed.
Never be ashamed of your ancestry. An remember, God loves the Irish Kwaque! Go fetch m two bottle beer fella stop m along icey-chestis! Why, the very mug of you, my lad, sticks out Irish all over it. (Michaels tail beat a tattoo.) Now dont be blarneyin me. Tis well Im wise to your insidyous, snugglin, heart-stealin ways. Ill have ye know my hearts impervious. Tis soaked too long this many a day in beer. I stole you to sell you, not to be lovin you. I couldve loved you once; but that was before me and beer was introduced. Id sell you for twenty quid right now, coin down, if the chance offered. An I aint goin to love you, so you can put that in your pipe n smoke it.
But as I was about to say when so rudely interrupted by your fectionate ways
Here he broke off to tilt to his mouth the opened bottle Kwaque handed him. He sighed, wiped his lips with the back of his hand, and proceeded.
Tis a strange thing, son, this silly matter of beer. Kwaque, the Methusalem-faced ape grinnin there, belongs to me. But by my faith do I belong to beer, bottles n bottles of it n mountains of bottles of it enough to sink the ship. Dog, truly I envy you, settin there comfortable-like inside your body thats untainted of alcohol. I may own you, and the man that gives me twenty quid will own you, but never will a mountain of bottles own you. Youre a freer man than I am, Mister Dog, though I dont know your name. Which reminds me
He drained the bottle, tossed it to Kwaque, and made signs for him to open the remaining one.
The namin of you, son, is not lightly to be considered. Irish, of course, but what shall it be? Paddy? Well may you shake your head. Theres no smack of distinction to it. Whod mistake you for a hod-carrier? Ballymena might do, but it sounds much like a lady, my boy. Ay, boy you are. Tis an idea. Boy! Lets see. Banshee Boy? Rotten. Lad of Erin!
He nodded approbation and reached for the second bottle. He drank and meditated, and drank again.
Ive got you, he announced solemnly. Killeny is a lovely name, and its Killeny Boy for you. Hows that strike your honourableness? high-soundin, dignified as a earl or.. or a retired brewer. Manys the one of that gentry Ive helped to retire in my day.
He finished his bottle, caught Michael suddenly by both jowls, and, leaning forward, rubbed noses with him. As suddenly released, with thumping tail and dancing eyes, Michael gazed up into the gods face. A definite soul, or entity, or spirit-thing glimmered behind his dogs eyes, already fond with affection for this hair-grizzled god who talked with him he knew not what, but whose very talking carried delicious and unguessable messages to his heart.
Hey! Kwaque, you!
Kwaque, squatted on the floor, his hams on his heels, paused from the rough-polishing of a shell comb designed and cut out by his master, and looked up, eager to receive command and serve.
Kwaque, you fella this time now savvee name stop along this fella dog. His name belong m him, Killeny Boy. You make m name stop m inside head belong you. All the time you speak m this fella dog, you speak m Killeny Boy. Savvee? Suppose m you no savvee, I knock m block off belong you. Killeny Boy, savvee! Killeny Boy. Killeny Boy.
As Kwaque removed his shoes and helped him undress, Daughtry regarded Michael with sleepy eyes.
Ive got you, laddy, he announced, as he stood up and swayed toward bed. Ive got your name, an heres your number I got that, too: high-strung but reasonable. It fits you like the paper on the wall.
High-strung but reasonable, thats 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 stewards 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 between the eyes, bent over his polishing, and ever his lips moved, repeating over and over, Killeny Boy.
CHAPTER V
For a number of days Michael saw only Steward and Kwaque. This was because he was confined to the stewards stateroom. Nobody else knew that he was on board, and Dag Daughtry, thoroughly aware that he had stolen a white mans dog, hoped to keep his presence secret and smuggle him ashore when the Makambo docked in Sydney.
Quickly the steward learned Michaels pre-eminent teachableness. In the course of his careful feeding of him, he gave him an occasional chicken bone. Two lessons, which would scarcely be called lessons, since both of them occurred within five minutes and each was not over half a minute in duration, sufficed to teach Michael that only on the floor of the room in the corner nearest the door could he chew chicken bones. Thereafter, without prompting, as a matter of course when handed a bone, he carried it to the corner.
And why not? He had the wit to grasp what Steward desired of him; he had the heart that made it a happiness for him to serve. Steward was a god who was kind, who loved him with voice and lip, who loved him with touch of hand, rub of nose, or enfolding arm. As all service flourishes in the soil of love, so with Michael. Had Steward commanded him to forego the chicken bone after it was in the corner, he would have served him by foregoing. Which is the way of the dog, the only animal that will cheerfully and gladly, with leaping body of joy, leave its food uneaten in order to accompany or to serve its human master.
Practically all his waking time off duty, Dag Daughtry spent with the imprisoned Michael, who, at command, had quickly learned to refrain from whining and barking. And during these hours of companionship Michael learned many things. Daughtry found that he already understood and obeyed simple things such as no, yes, get up, and lie down, and he improved on them, teaching him, Go into the bunk and lie down, Go under the bunk, Bring one shoe, Bring two shoes. And almost without any work at all, he taught him to roll over, to say his prayers, to play dead, to sit up and smoke a pipe with a hat on his head, and not merely to stand up on his hind legs but to walk on them.