In the meanwhile, Michael.

Lifted through the air, exchanged into invisible hands that drew him through a narrow diameter of brass into a lighted room, Michael looked about him in expectancy of Jerry.

But Jerry, at that moment, lay cuddled beside Villa Kennan's sleeping-cot on the slant deck of the _Ariel_, as that trim craft, the Shortlands astern and New Guinea dead ahead, heeled her scuppers a-whisper and garrulous to the sea-welter alongside as she logged her eleven knots under the press of the freshening trades.

Instead of Jerry, from whom he had last parted on board a boat, Michael saw Kwaque.
Kwaque?
Well, Kwaque was Kwaque, an individual, more unlike all other men than most men are unlike one another.

No queerer estray ever drifted along the stream of life.