e
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 that's 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. You're a freer man than I am, Mister Dog,
though I don't 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.
There's no smack of distinction to it. Who'd 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! Let's see. Banshee Boy? Rotten.
Lad of Erin!"

He nodded approbation and reached for the second bottle. He drank and
meditated, and drank again.

"I've got you," he announced solemnly. "Killeny is a lovely name, and
it's Killeny Boy for you. How's that strike your honourableness?--high-
soundin', dignified as a earl or . . . or a retired brewer. Many's the
one of that gentry I've 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 god's face. A
definite soul, or entity, or spirit-thing glimmered behind his dog's
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. A