his daily allowance and did not dare break into the
rent money which was all that stood between him and his family and the
street. This was why he sat at the beer table with Captain Jorgensen,
who was just returned with a schooner-load of hay from the Petaluma
Flats. He had already bought beer twice, and evinced no further show of
thirst. Instead, he was yawning from long hours of work and waking and
looking at his watch. And Daughtry was three quarts short! Besides,
Hanson had not yet been smashed, so that the cook-job on the schooner
still lay ahead an unknown distance in the future.

In his desperation, Daughtry hit upon an idea with which to get another
schooner of steam beer. He did not like steam beer, but it was cheaper
than lager.

"Look here, Captain," he said. "You don't know how smart that Killeny
Boy is. Why, he can count just like you and me."

"Hoh!" rumbled Captain Jorgensen. "I seen 'em do it in side shows. It's
all tricks. Dogs an' horses can't count."

"This dog can," Daughtry continued quietly. "You can't fool 'm. I bet
you, right now, I can order two beers, loud so he can hear and notice,
and then whisper to the waiter to bring one, an', when the one comes,
Killeny Boy'll raise a roar with the waiter."

"Hoh! Hoh! How much will you bet?"

The steward fingered a dime in his pocket. If Killeny failed him it
meant that the rent-money would be broken in upon. But Killeny couldn't
and wouldn't fail him, he reasoned, as he answered:

"I'll bet you the price of two beers."

The waiter was summoned, and, when he had received his secret
instructions, Michael was called over from where he lay at Kwaque's feet
in a corner. When Steward placed a chair for him at the table and
invited him into it, he began to key up. Steward expected something of
him, wanted him to show off. And it was not because of the showing off
that he was eager, but because of his love for Steward. Love and service
were one in the simple processes of Michael's mind. Just as he would
have leaped into fire for Steward's sake, so would he now serve Steward
in any way Steward desired. That was what love meant to him. It was all
love meant to him--service.

"Waiter!" Steward called; and, when the waiter stood close at hand: "Two
beers.--Did you get that, Killeny? _Two_ beers."

Michael squirmed in his chair, placed an impulsive paw on the table, and
impulsively flashed out his ribbon of tongue to Steward's cl