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And, outside of imprisonment, nothing happened of interest to Dag Daughtry and Kwaque at the pest-house until one night in the late fall. A gale was not merely brewing. It was coming on to blow.
But in the evenings, sometimes accompanied a few steps in the rear by Kwaque, Michael strolled out with Steward. The multiplicity of man-gods on the teeming sidewalks became a real bore to Michael, so that man-gods, in general, underwent a sharp depreciation. But Steward, the particular god of his fealty and worship, appreciated.
Also, he learned Kwaque's story. It was all an account of a pig. The two active young men were brothers who lived in the next village to his, and the pig had been theirs so Kwaque narrated in atrocious beche-de-mer English. He, Kwaque, had never seen the pig. He had never known of its existence until after it was dead. The two young men had loved the pig. But what of that?
An', Killeny, you won't mind workin' for me, I know. We need the money. There's Kwaque, an' Mr. Greenleaf, an' Cocky, not even mentioning you an' me, an' we eat an awful lot. An' room- rent's hard to get, an' jobs is harder. What d'ye say, son, to-morrow night you an' me hustle around an' see how much coin we can gather?"
But, remembering his own affliction, he released the old man so abruptly as to drop him violently into the chair. "My word, sir," said Daughtry. "You must 'a' ben havin' a time of it. Here, you fella Kwaque, this fella wringin' wet. You fella take 'm off shoe stop along him."
Scouts out on the runways, Kwaque continued, brought word of the coming of the two bereaved pig-owners, and the village had fled into the jungle and climbed trees all except Kwaque, who was unable to climb trees. "My word," Kwaque concluded, "me no make 'm that fella pig sick." "My word," quoth Dag Daughtry, "you devil-devil along that fella pig too much. You look 'm like hell.
Kwaque queried back, taking for granted that it was an offer to exchange and wondering whether the little old cook had become enamoured of his precious jews' harp. "No changee for changee," Ah Moy answered. "You wanchee him, all right, can do." "How fashion can do?" Kwaque demanded, who to his beche-de-mer English was already adding pidgin English.
Kwaque gingerly obeyed, but scarcely had his foot moved an inch when Michael's was upon him. The foot and leg petrified, while Michael stiff-leggedly drew a half-circle of intimidation about him. "Got you nailed to the floor, eh?" Daughtry chuckled. "Some nigger-chaser, my word, any amount."
And he was destined, as time went by and the conviction that Captain Kellar had passed into the inevitable nothingness along with Meringe and the Solomons, to love just as absolutely this six-quart steward with the understanding ways and the fascinating lip-caress. Kwaque, no; for Kwaque was black.
For, with a large needle, Doctor Emory was probing the dark spot in the midst of the vertical lion-lines. Nor did he merely probe the area. Thrusting into it from one side, under the skin and parallel to it, he buried the length of the needle from sight through the insensate infiltration. This Kwaque beheld with bulging eyes; for his master betrayed no sign that the thing was being done.
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