Many of the feasters had not troubled to return to their houses, but lay about on the sand, in the mid-morning sunshine, men, women, and children and entire families, wherever they had yielded to slumber.
Down by the water's edge, so close that his fore-feet rested in the water, Jerry sat down, his heart bursting for Skipper, thrust his nose heavenward at the sun, and wailed his woe as dogs have ever wailed since they came in from the wild woods to the fires of men.
And here Lamai found him, hushed his grief against his breast with cuddling arms, and carried him back to the grass house by the brook.
Water he offered, but Jerry could drink no more.

Love he offered, but Jerry could not forget his torment of desire for Skipper.

In the end, disgusted with so unreasonable a puppy, Lamai forgot his love in his boyish savageness, clouted Jerry over the head, right side and left, and tied him as few whites men's dogs have ever been tied.

For, in his way, Lamai was a genius.

He had never seen the thing done with any dog, yet he devised, on the spur of the moment, the invention of tying Jerry with a stick.