Never before had he gone out on board the _Arangi_, which he could see growing larger and closer to each lip-hissing stroke of the oars of the blacks.
Only an hour before, Jerry had come down from the plantation house to the beach to see the _Arangi_ depart.

Twice before, in his half-year of life, had he had this delectable experience.

Delectable it truly was, running up and down the white beach of sand-pounded coral, and, under the wise guidance of Biddy and Terrence, taking part in the excitement of the beach and even adding to it.
There was the nigger-chasing.

Jerry had been born to hate niggers.

His first experiences in the world as a puling puppy, had taught him that Biddy, his mother, and his father Terrence, hated niggers.