"You never called him." "Mental telepathy, the affinity of souls pitched in the same whatever-you- call-it harmony," the steward mystified.

"You see, Killeny an' me are made of the same kind of stuff, only run into different moulds.

He might a-been my full brother, or me his, only for some mistake in the creation factory somewhere.

Now I'll show you he knows his bit of arithmetic." And, drawing the paper balls from his pocket, Dag Daughtry demonstrated to the amazement and satisfaction of the ring of passengers Michael's ability to count to five.
"Why, sir," Daughtry concluded the performance, "if I was to order four glasses of beer in a public-house ashore, an' if I was absent-minded an' didn't notice the waiter 'd only brought three, Killeny Boy there 'd raise a row instanter." Kwaque was no longer compelled to enjoy his jews' harp on the gratings over the fire-room, now that Michael's presence on the _Makambo_ was known, and, in the stateroom, on stolen occasions, he made experiments of his own with Michael.

Once the jews' harp began emitting its barbaric rhythms, Michael was helpless.