After Agno had eaten first-cut of pig, Jerry was served second.

Even the two acolytes and the fly-flapping maid ate after him, leaving the debris for the several old women.

And, unlike the mere bush dogs, who stole shelter from the rain under overhanging eaves, Jerry was given a dry place under the roof where the heads of bushmen and of forgotten sandalwood traders hung down from above in the midst of a dusty confusion of dried viscera of sharks, crocodile skulls, and skeletons of Solomons rats that measured two-thirds of a yard in length from bone-tip of nose to bone-tip of tail.
A number of times, all freedom being his, Jerry stole away across the village to the house of Lumai.

But never did he find Lamai, who, since Skipper, was the only human he had met that had placed a bid to his heart.

Jerry never appeared openly, but from the thick fern of the brookside observed the house and scented out its occupants.