The old ache was in his throat, the old harsh dryness in mouth and eyes.

And he knew--what no other man knew--why he was in the Solomons, skipper of the teak-built yacht _Arangi_, running niggers, risking his head, and drinking more Scotch whiskey than was good for any man.
Not since that night had he looked with warm eyes on any woman.

And he had been noted by other whites as notoriously cold toward pickanninnies white or black.
But, having visioned the ultimate horror of memory, Van Horn was soon able to fall asleep again, delightfully aware, as he drowsed off, of Jerry's head on his shoulder.

Once, when Jerry, dreaming of the beach at Meringe and of _Mister_ Haggin, Biddy, Terrence, and Michael, set up a low whimpering, Van Horn roused sufficiently to soothe him closer to him, and to mutter ominously: "Any nigger that'd hurt that pup.

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