But Jerry recoiled from the open water lapping the _Arangi's_ side.

The taboo was upon him.

It was the image of the log awash that was not a log but that was alive, luminous in his brain, that checked him.

It was not reason on his part, but inhibition which had become habit.
He plumped down on his bob tail, lifted golden muzzle skyward, and emitted a long puppy-wail of dismay and grief.
"It's all right, Jerry, old man, brace up and be a man-dog," Van Horn soothed him.
But Jerry was not to be reconciled.

While this indubitably was a white- skinned god, it was not his god.