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Updated: June 19, 2025
Among the guests were President Tyler and two members of his Cabinet; Mr. Upshur, Secretary of State, and Mr. Gilmer, Secretary of the Navy; the widow of Ex-President Madison; Mr. Gardner, a prominent citizen of New York, and his accomplished daughter; Commodore Kennan; and a number of Senators and Representatives.
No more could he help it than could he help responding with a snarl when threatened by a club; no more could he help it than when he had spoiled the turn of Dick and Daisy Bell when swept by the strains of "Roll Me Down to Rio"; no more could he help it than could Jerry, on the deck of the Ariel, help singing when Villa Kennan put her arms around him, smothered him deliciously in her cloud of hair, and sang his memory back into time and the fellowship of the ancient pack.
When the train arrived at Glen Ellen, in the Valley of the Moon, it was Harley Kennan himself, at the side-door of the baggage-car, who caught hold of Michael and swung him to the ground. For the first time Michael had performed a railroad journey uncrated. Merely with collar and chain had he travelled up from Oakland.
The telephone on the Kennan Ranch, and the telephones on all other ranches abutting on Sonoma Mountain, had rung often and transmitted purposeful conversations and arrangements.
"You give 'm me that fella boy," he begged. "Eh? You give 'm me that fella boy." "What name you want 'm?" Not for some time would Johnny answer this question, and then only when Kennan told him that there was no harm done and that he intended to let the black go. At this Johnny protested vehemently.
Jerry's ears did not flatten, nor did he laugh fellowship with his mouth, as he inspected Johnny and smelt his calves for future reference. Cavalier he was to the extreme, and, after the briefest of inspection, he turned back to Villa Kennan. "What did I say?" her husband exulted. "He knows the colour line. He's a white man's dog that has been trained to it." "My word," spoke up Johnny.
In the waiting automobile he found Villa Kennan, and, chain removed, sat beside her and between her and Harley As the machine purred along the two miles of road that wound up the side of Sonoma Mountain, Michael scarcely looked at the forest-trees and vistas of wandering glades. He had been in the United States three years, during which time he had been kept a close prisoner.
Looking up, he saw a reluctant horse and a forceful rider plunging in mid-air down upon him. In that flashing glimpse, even as he reined and spurred to make his own horse leap sidewise out from under, Harley Kennan observed the scratched skin and torn clothing, the wild- burning eyes, and the haggardness under the scraggly growth of beard, of the man-hunted man.
"Me know 'm that fella dog. Me know 'm papa and mamma belong along him. Big fella white marster Mister Haggin stop along Meringe, mamma and papa stop along him that fella place." Harley Kennan uttered a sharp exclamation. "Of course," he cried. "The Commissioner told me all about it. The Arangi, that the Somo people captured, sailed last from Meringe Plantation.
Nor was it merely rhythmic. The notes the dog sang were of the air, and they were correct. But Villa Kennan scarcely heard. "He has Jerry beaten a mile," Harley muttered to her. "Listen," she replied, in tense whispers. "Did you ever see that dog before?" Harley shook his head. "You have seen him before," she insisted. "Look at that crinkled ear. Think! Think back! Remember!"
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