ave hesitated to risk his life for
Captain Kellar. And he was destined, as time went by and the conviction
that Captain Kellar had passed into the inevitable nothingness along with
Meringe and the Solomons, to love just as absolutely this six-quart
steward with the understanding ways and the fascinating lip-caress.
Kwaque, no; for Kwaque was black. Kwaque he merely accepted, as an
appurtenance, as a part of the human landscape, as a chattel of Dag
Daughtry.

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 god's 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 Daughtry's 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.

"It's this way, son," the steward told him. "Your father and mother were
Irish. Now don't 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." (Michael's tail beat a tattoo.) "Now don't be blarneyin' me.
'Tis well I'm wise to your insidyous, snugglin', heart-stealin' ways.
I'll have ye know my heart's impervious. 'Tis soaked too long this many
a day in beer. I stole you to sell you, not to be lovin' you. I
could've loved you once; but that was before me and beer was introduced.
I'd sell you for twenty quid right now, coin down, if the chance offered.
An' I ain't goin' to love you, so you can put that in your pipe 'n' smok