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Updated: June 9, 2025
Kwaque he merely accepted, as an appurtenance, as a part of the human landscape, as a chattel of Dag Daughtry. But he did not know this new god as Dag Daughtry. Kwaque called him "marster"; but Michael heard other white men so addressed by the blacks. Many blacks had he heard call Captain Kellar "marster." It was Captain Duncan who called the steward "Steward."
But before Kwaque, immediately kneeling, could touch hand to the shoelaces, Daughtry, remembering that Kwaque was likewise unclean, had thrust him away.
He seemed to hold them responsible for their horrible condition, to look upon their filthiness as a personal affront. Michael yielded to being flung into the tub. He recognized that baths were necessary and compulsory, although they were administered in much better fashion at Cedarwild, while Kwaque and Steward had made a sort of love function of it when they bathed him.
Occasionally he trotted down the short cross-hall upon which the stateroom opened, and gazed up and down the long hall that ran fore and aft. For the better part of an hour he did this, returning always to the door that would not open. Then he achieved a definite idea. Since the door would not open, and since Steward and Kwaque did not return, he would go in search of them.
And as to forecasting Dag Daughtry's fate, along with Kwaque, no maddest drug-dream could have approximated it. One night Dag Daughtry sat at a table in the saloon called the Pile-drivers' Home. He was in a parlous predicament. Harder than ever had it been to secure odd jobs, and he had reached the end of his savings.
March!" commanded the sergeant. The two policemen advanced on Daughtry and Kwaque with extended clubs. "Keep away, an' keep movin'," one of the policemen growled fiercely. "An' do what we say, or get your head cracked. Out you go, now. Out the door with you. Better tell that coon to stick right alongside you." "Doc., won't you let me talk a moment?" Daughtry begged of Emory.
As the days passed, the steward took facetious occasions, when he had drunk five quarts of his daily allowance, to shift his and Kwaque's bunks about. And invariably Ah Moy shifted, though Daughtry failed to notice that he never shifted into a bunk which Kwaque had occupied.
Seeing the dog growing into his master's affection, Kwaque himself developed a genuine affection for Michael much in the same way that he worshipped anything of the steward's, whether the shoes he polished for him, the clothes he brushed and cleaned for him, or the six bottles of beer he put into the ice-chest each day for him.
The sergeant and the two policemen shied away from Kwaque; Miss Judson, with a smothered cry, clapped her two hands over her heart; and Dag Daughtry, shocked but sceptical, demanded: "What are you givin' us, Doc.?" "Stand still! don't move!" Walter Merritt Emory said peremptorily to Daughtry.
Instead of Jerry, from whom he had last parted on board a boat, Michael saw Kwaque. Kwaque? Well, Kwaque was Kwaque, an individual, more unlike all other men than most men are unlike one another. No queerer estray ever drifted along the stream of life.
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