ofit, and was
prettily crooked in such a matter as stealing another man's dog. Somebody
had to pay for the six quarts, which, multiplied by thirty, amounted to a
tidy sum in the course of the month; and, since that man was Dag
Daughtry, he found it necessary to pass Michael inboard on the _Makambo_
through a starboard port-hole.

On the beach, that night at Tulagi, vainly wondering what had become of
the whaleboat, Michael had met the squat, thick, hair-grizzled ship's
steward. The friendship between them was established almost instantly,
for Michael, from a merry puppy, had matured into a merry dog. Far
beyond Jerry, was he a sociable good fellow, and this, despite the fact
that he had known very few white men. First, there had been Mister
Haggin, Derby and Bob, of Meringe; next, Captain Kellar and Captain
Kellar's mate of the _Eugenie_; and, finally, Harley Kennan and the
officers of the _Ariel_. Without exception, he had found them all
different, and delightfully different, from the hordes of blacks he had
been taught to despise and to lord it over.

And Dag Daughtry had proved no exception from his first greeting of
"Hello, you white man's dog, what 'r' you doin' herein nigger country?"
Michael had responded coyly with an assumption of dignified aloofness
that was given the lie by the eager tilt of his ears and the good-humour
that shone in his eyes. Nothing of this was missed by Dag Daughtry, who
knew a dog when he saw one, as he studied Michael in the light of the
lanterns held by black boys where the whaleboats were landing cargo.

Two estimates the steward quickly made of Michael: he was a likable dog,
genial-natured on the face of it, and he was a valuable dog. Because of
those estimates Dag Daughtry glanced about him quickly. No one was
observing. For the moment, only blacks stood about, and their eyes were
turned seaward where the sound of oars out of the darkness warned them to
stand ready to receive the next cargo-laden boat. Off to the right,
under another lantern, he could make out the Resident Commissioner's
clerk and the _Makambo's_ super-cargo heatedly discussing some error in
the bill of lading.

The steward flung another quick glance over Michael and made up his mind.
He turned away casually and strolled along the beach out of the circle of
lantern light. A hundred yards away he sat down in the sand and waited.

"Worth twenty pounds if a penny," he muttered to himself. "If I couldn't