For Nalasu, having sat in the lonely dark for many years, had thought far more about the world around him and knew it far better than had he been able to see it.

For his own special purpose he had need of a dog.
Several bush dogs he had tried, but they had shown little appreciation of his kindness and had invariably run away.

The last had remained longest because he had treated it with the greatest kindness, but run away it had before he had trained it to his purpose.

But the white master's dog, he had heard, was different.

It never ran away in fear, while it was said to be more intelligent than the dogs of Somo.
The invention Lamai had made of tying Jerry with a stick had been noised abroad in the village, and by a stick, in Nalasu's house, Jerry found himself again tied.