oberly he continued to regard the mate
when he went aft and threatened to knock the "Song of Songs" and the rest
of the Old Testament out of the black helmsman whose smile of teeth was
as humbly gentle and placating as Jerry's had been when he made his
appeal.

Leaving this god as a god unliked and not understood, Jerry sadly trotted
back to the companionway and yearned his head over the combing in the
direction in which he had seen Skipper disappear. What bit at his
consciousness and was a painful incitement in it, was his desire to be
with Skipper who was not right, and who was in trouble. He wanted
Skipper. He wanted to be with him, first and sharply, because he loved
him, and, second and dimly, because he might serve him. And, wanting
Skipper, in his helplessness and youngness in experience of the world, he
whimpered and cried his heart out across the companion combing, and was
too clean and direct in his sorrow to be deflected by an outburst of
anger against the niggers, on deck and below, who chuckled at him and
derided him.

From the crest of the combing to the cabin floor was seven feet. He had,
only a few hours before, climbed the precipitous stairway; but it was
impossible, and he knew it, to descend the stairway. And yet, at the
last, he dared it. So compulsive was the prod of his heart to gain to
Skipper at any cost, so clear was his comprehension that he could not
climb down the ladder head first, with no grippingness of legs and feet
and muscles such as were possible in the ascent, that he did not attempt
it. He launched outward and down, in one magnificent and love-heroic
leap. He knew that he was violating a taboo of life, just as he knew he
was violating a taboo if he sprang into Meringe Lagoon where swam the
dreadful crocodiles. Great love is always capable of expressing itself
in sacrifice and self-immolation. And only for love, and for no lesser
reason, could Jerry have made the leap.

He struck on his side and head. The one impact knocked the breath out of
him; the other stunned him. Even in his unconsciousness, lying on his
side and quivering, he made rapid, spasmodic movements of his legs as if
running for'ard to Skipper. The boys looked on and laughed, and when he
no longer quivered and churned his legs they continued to laugh. Born in
savagery, having lived in savagery all their lives and known naught else,
their sense of humour was correspondingly savage. To them, the sight of