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Updated: June 16, 2025
"That's one fine bow-wow. A bow-wow is good on a scow when all hands sleep alongside the dock or in an anchor watch." "Fire Hanson now," Dag Daughtry urged. But Captain Jorgensen shook his slow head slowly. "First I smash him up." "Then smash him now and fire him," Daughtry persisted. "There he is right now at the corner of the bar." "No. He must give me reason. I got plenty of reason.
And then, just that Michael should not make the mistake of thinking he was being much made over, Daughtry leaned back, relighted his pipe, and apparently forgot his existence. Instead of bidding for good will, he was bent on making Michael do the bidding.
"Suppose 'm me no give?" the steward impatiently temporized. For reply, the old man half-turned, and, on his crutch, swinging his stump of leg in the air, began sidling hippity-hop into the grass hut. "All right," Daughtry cried hastily. "Me give 'm you smoke 'm quick fella."
The cockatoo stepped upon Daughtry's inviting index finger, swiftly ascended his shirt sleeve, and, on his shoulder, claws sunk into the flimsy shirt fabric till they hurt the flesh beneath, leaned head to ear and uttered in gratitude and relief, and in self-identification: "Cocky. Cocky." "You son of a gun," Daughtry crooned. "Glory be!"
You move 'm along my bunk, I move 'm along that fella Chink's bunk." This accomplished, so that Kwaque, Michael, and Ah Moy occupied the starboard side and Daughtry alone bunked on the port side, he went on deck and aft to his duties. On his next return he found Ah Moy had transferred back to the port side, but this time into the last bunk aft.
At the most, it was a feeling, and feelings do not require words in order to be experienced or comprehended. "There's an all-night bank," the other went on. "We can stroll over, I'll cash a cheque, and in half an hour the cash will be in your hand." Daughtry shook his head. "Even as a business proposition, nothing doing," he said. "Look you. Here's the dog earnin' twenty dollars a night.
Whirling about on the threshold, at the imminent risk of having his skull cracked, Dag Daughtry called back: "Doc! My dog! You know 'm." "I'll get him for you," Doctor Emory consented quickly. "What's the address?" "Room eight-seven, Clay street, the Bowhead Lodging House, you know the place, entrance just around the corner from the Bowhead Saloon.
Daughtry told his seventeen-years- old brown-skinned Papuan with the withered ancient face of a centenarian, the legs of a living skeleton, and the huge-stomached torso of an elderly Japanese wrestler. "Eh, Kwaque! What you fella think?" And Kwaque, too awed by the spaciousness to speak, eloquently rolled his eyes in agreement.
Here, the guards came hastily to deposit food-supplies, medicines, and written doctors' instructions, retreating as hastily as they came. Here, also, was a blackboard upon which Daughtry was instructed to chalk up his needs and requests in letters of such size that they could be read from a distance.
Ten minutes after Captain Duncan saw the last of his broad back, Daughtry, in the launch with his belongings and heading for Jackson Bay, was hunched over Michael and caressing him, while Kwaque, crooning with joy under his breath that he was with all that was precious to him in the world, felt once again in the side-pocket of his flimsy coat to make sure that his beloved jews' harp had not been left behind.
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