CHAPTER XVII.
As blind Nalasu slowly plodded away, with one hand tapping the path before him and with the other carrying Jerry head-downward suspended by his tied legs, Jerry heard a sudden increase in the wild howling of the dogs as the killing began and they realized that death was upon them.
But, unlike the boy Lamai, who had known no better, the old man did not carry Jerry all the way to his house.

At the first stream pouring down between the low hills of the rising land, he paused and put Jerry down to drink.

And Jerry knew only the delight of the wet coolness on his tongue, all about his mouth, and down his throat.

Nevertheless, in his subconsciousness was being planted the impression that, kinder than Lamai, than Agno, than Bashti, this was the kindest black he had encountered in Somo.
When he had drunk till for the moment he could drink no more, he thanked Nalasu with his tongue--not warmly nor ecstatically as had it been Skipper's hand, but with due gratefulness for the life-giving draught.
The old man chuckled in a pleased way, rolled Jerry's parched body into the water, and, keeping his head above the surface, rubbed the water into his dry skin and let him lie there for long blissful minutes.
From the stream to Nalasu's house, a goodly distance, Nalasu still carried him with bound legs, although not head-downward but clasped in one arm against his chest.

His idea was to love the dog to him.