'Vast washee." And then, with amazing abruptness, Jerry saw the whaleboat dimly emerge from the gloom close upon him, was blinded by the stab of the torch full in his eyes, and, even as he yelped his joy, felt and recognized Skipper's hand clutching him by the slack of the neck and lifting him into the air.
He landed wet and soppily against Skipper's rain-wet chest, his tail bobbing frantically against Skipper's containing arm, his body wriggling, his tongue dabbing madly all over Skipper's chin and mouth and cheeks and nose.

And Skipper did not know that he was himself wet, and that he was in the first shock of recurrent malaria precipitated by the wet and the excitement.

He knew only that the puppy-dog, given him only the previous morning, was safe back in his arms.
While the boat's crew bent to the oars, he steered with the sweep between his arm and his side in order that he might hold Jerry with the other arm.
"You little son of a gun," he crooned, and continued to croon, over and over.

"You little son of a gun." And Jerry responded with tongue-kisses, whimpering and crying as is the way of lost children immediately after they are found.

Also, he shivered violently.