he patience of waiting, when he wanted to go home and when
Steward continued to sit at table and talk and drink beer, was his, as
was the patience of the rope around the neck, the fence too high to
scale, the narrowed-walled room with the closed door which he could never
unlatch but which humans unlatched so easily. So that he permitted
himself to be led away by the ship's butcher, who on the _Umatilla_ had
the charge of all dog passengers. Immured in a tiny between-decks cubby
which was filled mostly with boxes and bales, tied as well by the rope
around his neck, he waited from moment to moment for the door to open and
admit, realised in the flesh, the resplendent vision of Steward which
blazed through the totality of his consciousness.

Instead, although Michael did not guess it then, and, only later, divined
it as a vague manifestation of power on the part of Del Mar, the well-
tipped ship's butcher opened the door, untied him, and turned him over to
the well-tipped stateroom steward who led him to Del Mar's stateroom. Up
to the last, Michael was convinced that he was being led to Steward.
Instead, in the stateroom, he found only Del Mar. "No Steward," might be
described as Michael's thought; but by _patience_, as his mood and key,
might be described his acceptance of further delay in meeting up with his
god, his best beloved, his Steward who was his own human god amidst the
multitude of human gods he was encountering.

Michael wagged his tail, flattened his ears, even his crinkled ear, a
trifle, and smiled, all in a casual way of recognition, smelled out the
room to make doubly sure that there was no scent of Steward, and lay down
on the floor. When Del Mar spoke to him, he looked up and gazed at him.

"Now, my boy, times have changed," Del Mar addressed him in cold, brittle
tones. "I'm going to make an actor out of you, and teach you what's
what. First of all, come here . . . COME HERE!"

Michael obeyed, without haste, without lagging, and patently without
eagerness.

"You'll get over that, my lad, and put pep into your motions when I talk
to you," Del Mar assured him; and the very manner of his utterance was a
threat that Michael could not fail to recognise. "Now we'll just see if
I can pull off the trick. You listen to me, and sing like you did for
that leper guy."

Drawing a harmonica from his vest pocket, he put it to his lips and began
to play "Marching through Georgia."

"Sit down!" he command