The door had been left hooked open, and Jerry trotted out into the cabin where half a hundred blacks made queer sleep-moanings, and sighings, and snorings.

They were packed closely together, covering the floor as well as the long sweep of bunks, so that he was compelled to crawl over their naked legs.

And there was no white god about to protect him.

He knew it, but was unafraid.
Having made sure that Skipper was not in the cabin, Jerry prepared for the perilous ascent of the steep steps that were almost a ladder, then recollected the lazarette.

In he trotted and sniffed at the sleeping girl in the cotton shift who believed that Van Horn was going to eat her if he could succeed in fattening her.
Back at the ladder-steps, he looked up and waited in the hope that Skipper might appear from above and carry him up.