it was different from a log awash.

Next, something brushed past him, and he encountered it with a snarl and
a splashing of his forepaws. He was half-whirled about in the vortex of
the thing's passage caused by the alarmed flirt of its tail. Shark it
was, and not crocodile, and not so timidly would it have sheered clear
but for the fact that it was fairly full with a recent feed of a huge sea
turtle too feeble with age to escape.

Although he could not see it, Jerry sensed that the thing, the instrument
of nothingness, lurked about him. Nor did he see the dorsal fin break
surface and approach him from the rear. From the yacht he heard rifle-
shots in quick succession. From the rear a panic splash came to his
ears. That was all. The peril passed and was forgotten. Nor did he
connect the rifle-shots with the passing of the peril. He did not know,
and he was never to know, that one, known to men as Harley Kennan, but
known as "Husband-Man" by the woman he called "Wife-Woman," who owned the
three-topmast schooner yacht _Ariel_, had saved his life by sending a
thirty-thirty Marlin bullet through the base of a shark's fin.

But Jerry was to know Harley Kennan, and quickly, for it was Harley
Kennan, a bowline around his body under his arm-pits, lowered by a couple
of seamen down the generous freeboard of the _Ariel_, who gathered in by
the nape of the neck the smooth-coated Irish terrier that, treading water
perpendicularly, had no eyes for him so eagerly did he gaze at the line
of faces along the rail in quest of the one face.

No pause for thanks did he make when he was dropped down upon the deck.
Instead, shaking himself instinctively as he ran, he scurried along the
deck for Skipper. The man and his wife laughed at the spectacle.

"He acts as if he were demented with delight at being rescued," Mrs.
Kennan observed.

And Mr. Kennan: "It's not that. He must have a screw loose somewhere.
Perhaps he's one of those creatures who've slipped the ratchet off the
motion cog. Maybe he can't stop running till he runs down."

In the meantime Jerry continued to run, up port side and down starboard
side, from stern to bow and back again, wagging his stump tail and
laughing friendliness to the many two-legged gods he encountered. Had he
been able to think to such abstraction he would have been astounded at
the number of white-gods. Thirty there were at least of them, not
counting other gods that were neither black nor