by Jack London
CHAPTER XXII
Not altogether unwillingly, in the darkness of night, despite that hedisliked the man, did Michael go with Harry Del Mar. Like a burglar theman came, with infinite caution of silence, to the outhouse in DoctorEmory's back yard where Michael was a prisoner. Del Mar knew the theatretoo well to venture any hackneyed melodramatic effect such as an electrictorch. He felt his way in the darkness to the door of the outhouse,unlatched it, and entered softly, feeling with his hands for the wire-haired coat.
And Michael, a man-dog and a lion-dog in all the stuff of him, bristledat the instant of intrusion, but made no outcry. Instead, he smelled outthe intruder and recognised him. Disliking the man, nevertheless hepermitted the tying of the rope around his neck and silently followed himout to the sidewalk, down to the corner, and into the waiting taxi.
His reasoning--unless reason be denied him--was simple. This man he hadmet, more than once, in the company of Steward. Amity had existedbetween him and Steward, for they had sat at table, and drunk together.Steward was lost. Michael knew not where to find him, and was himself aprisoner in the back yard of a strange place. What had once happened,could again happen. It had happened that Steward, Del Mar, and Michaelhad sat at table together on divers occasions. It was probable that sucha combination would happen again, was going to happen now, and, oncemore, in the bright-lighted cabaret, he would sit on a chair, Del Mar onone side, and on the other side beloved Steward with a glass of beerbefore him--all of which might be called "leaping to a conclusion"; forconclusion there was, and upon the conclusion Michael acted.
Now Michael could not reason to this conclusion nor think to thisconclusion, in words. "Amity," as an instance, was no word in hisconsciousness. Whether or not he thought to the conclusion inswift-related images and pictures and swift-welded composites of imagesand pictures, is a problem that still waits human solution. The pointis: _he did think_. If this be denied him, then must he have actedwholly by instinct--which would seem more marvellous on the face of itthan if, in dim ways, he had performed a vague thought-process.
However, into the taxi and away through the maze of San Francisco'sstreets, Michael lay alertly on the floor near Del Mar's feet, making noovertures of friendliness, by the same token making no demonstration ofthe repulsion of the man's personality engendered in him. For Harry DelMar, who was base, and who had been further abased by his money-makingdesire for the possession of Michael, had had his baseness sensed byMichael from the beginning. That first meeting in the Barbary Coastcabaret, Michael had bristled at him, and stiffened belligerently, whenhe laid his hand on Michael's head. Nor had Michael thought about theman at all, much less attempted any analysis of him. Something had beenwrong with that hand--the perfunctory way in which it had touched himunder a show of heartiness that could well deceive the onlooker. The_feel_ of it had not been right. There had been no warmth in it, noheart, no communication of genuine good approach from the brain and thesoul of the man of which it was the telegraphic tentacle and transmitter.In short, the message or feel had not been a good message or feel, andMichael had bristled and stiffened without thinking, but by mere_knowing_, which is what men call "intuition."
Electric lights, a shed-covered wharf, mountains of luggage and freight,the noisy toil of 'longshoremen and sailors, the staccato snorts ofdonkey engines and the whining sheaves as running lines ran through theblocks, a crowd of white-coated stewards carrying hand-baggage, thequartermaster at the gangway foot, the gangway sloping steeply up to the_Umatilla's_ promenade deck, more quartermasters and gold-laced ship'sofficers at the head of the gangway, and more crowd and confusionblocking the narrow deck--thus Michael knew, beyond all peradventure,that he had come back to the sea and its ships, where he had first metSteward, where he had been always with Steward, save for the recentnightmare period in the great city. Nor was there absent from theflashing visions of his consciousness the images and memories of Kwaqueand Cocky. Whining eagerly, he strained at the leash, risking his tendertoes among the many inconsiderate, restless, leather-shod feet of thehumans, as he quested and scented for Cocky and Kwaque, and, most of all,for Steward.
Michael accepted his disappointment in not immediately meeting them, forfrom the dawn of consciousness, the limitations and restrictions of dogsin relation to humans had been hammered into him in the form of conceptsof patience. The patience of waiting, when he wanted to go home and whenSteward continued to sit at table and talk and drink beer, was his, aswas the patience of the rope around the neck, the fence too high toscale, the narrowed-walled room with the closed door which he could neverunlatch but which humans unlatched so easily. So that he permittedhimself to be led away by the ship's butcher, who on the _Umatilla_ hadthe charge of all dog passengers. Immured in a tiny between-decks cubbywhich was filled mostly with boxes and bales, tied as well by the ropearound his neck, he waited from moment to moment for the door to open andadmit, realised in the flesh, the resplendent vision of Steward whichblazed through the totality of his consciousness.
Instead, although Michael did not guess it then, and, only later, divinedit as a vague manifestation of power on the part of Del Mar, the well-tipped ship's butcher opened the door, untied him, and turned him over tothe well-tipped stateroom steward who led him to Del Mar's stateroom. Upto the last, Michael was convinced that he was being led to Steward.Instead, in the stateroom, he found only Del Mar. "No Steward," might bedescribed as Michael's thought; but by _patience_, as his mood and key,might be described his acceptance of further delay in meeting up with hisgod, his best beloved, his Steward who was his own human god amidst themultitude of human gods he was encountering.
Michael wagged his tail, flattened his ears, even his crinkled ear, atrifle, and smiled, all in a casual way of recognition, smelled out theroom to make doubly sure that there was no scent of Steward, and lay downon the floor. When Del Mar spoke to him, he looked up and gazed at him.
"Now, my boy, times have changed," Del Mar addressed him in cold, brittletones. "I'm going to make an actor out of you, and teach you what'swhat. First of all, come here . . . COME HERE!"
Michael obeyed, without haste, without lagging, and patently withouteagerness.
"You'll get over that, my lad, and put pep into your motions when I talkto you," Del Mar assured him; and the very manner of his utterance was athreat that Michael could not fail to recognise. "Now we'll just see ifI can pull off the trick. You listen to me, and sing like you did forthat leper guy."
Drawing a harmonica from his vest pocket, he put it to his lips and beganto play "Marching through Georgia."
"Sit down!" he commanded.
Again Michael obeyed, although all that was Michael was in protest. Hequivered as the shrill-sweet strains from the silver reeds ran throughhim. All his throat and chest was in the impulse to sing; but hemastered it, for he did not care to sing for this man. All he wanted ofhim was Steward.
"Oh, you're stubborn, eh?" Del Mar sneered at him. "The matter with youis you're thoroughbred. Well, my boy, it just happens I know your kindand I reckon I can make you get busy and work for me just as much as youdid for that other guy. Now get busy."
He shifted the tune on into "Georgia Camp Meeting." But Michael wasobdurate. Not until the melting strains of "Old Kentucky Home" pouredthrough him did he lose his self-control and lift his mellow-throatedhowl that was the call for the lost pack of the ancient millenniums.Under the prodding hypnosis of this music he could not but yearn and burnfor the vague, forgotten life of the pack when the world was young andthe pack was the pack ere it was lost for ever through the endlesscenturies of domestication.
"Ah, ha," Del Mar chuckled coldly, unaware of the profound history andvast past he evoked by his silver reeds.
A loud knock on the partition wall warned him that some sleepy passengerwas objecting.
"That will do!" he said sharply, taking the harmonica from his lips. AndMichael ceased, and hated him. "I guess I've got your number all right.And you nee
dn't think you're going to sleep here scratching fleas anddisturbing my sleep."
He pressed the call-button, and, when his room-steward answered, turnedMichael over to him to be taken down below and tied up in the crowdedcubby-hole.
* * * * *
During the several days and nights on the _Umatilla_, Michael learnedmuch of what manner of man Harry Del Mar was. Almost, might it be said,he learned Del Mar's pedigree without knowing anything of his history.For instance he did not know that Del Mar's real name was PercivalGrunsky, and that at grammar school he had been called "Brownie" by thegirls and "Blackie" by the boys. No more did he know that he had gonefrom half-way-through grammar school directly into the industrial reformschool; nor that, after serving two years, he had been paroled out byHarris Collins, who made a living, and an excellent one, by traininganimals for the stage. Much less could he know the training that for sixyears Del Mar, as assistant, had been taught to give the animals, and,thereby, had received for himself.
What Michael did know was that Del Mar had no pedigree and was a scrub ascompared with thoroughbreds such as Steward, Captain Kellar, and _Mister_Haggin of Meringe. And he learned it swiftly and simply. In the day-time, fetched by a steward, Michael would be brought on deck to Del Mar,who was always surrounded by effusive young ladies and matrons wholavished caresses and endearments upon Michael. This he stood, althoughmuch bored; but what irked him almost beyond standing were the feignedcaresses and endearments Del Mar lavished on him. He knew thecold-blooded insincerity of them, for, at night, when he was brought toDel Mar's room, he heard only the cold brittle tones, sensed only thethreat and the menace of the other's personality, felt, when touched bythe other's hand, only a stiffness and sharpness of contact that was liketo so much steel or wood in so far as all subtle tenderness of heart andspirit was absent.
This man was two-faced, two-mannered. No thoroughbred was anything butsingle-faced and single-mannered. A thoroughbred, hot-blooded as itmight be, was always sincere. But in this scrub was no sincerity, only apositive insincerity. A thoroughbred had passion, because of its hotblood; but this scrub had no passion. Its blood was cold as itsdeliberateness, and it did nothing save deliberately. These things hedid not think. He merely realized them, as any creature realizes itselfin _liking_ and in not _liking_.
To cap it all, the last night on board, Michael lost his thoroughbredtemper with this man who had no temper. It came to a fight. And Michaelhad no chance. He raged royally and fought royally, leaping to theattack, after being knocked over twice by open-handed blows under hisear. Quick as Michael was, slashing South Sea niggers by virtue of hisquickness and cleverness, he could not touch his teeth to the flesh ofthis man, who had been trained for six years with animals by HarrisCollins. So that, when he leaped, open-mouthed, for the bite, Del Mar'sright hand shot out, gripped his under-jaw as he was in the air, andflipped him over in a somersaulting fall to the floor on his back. Onceagain he leapt open-mouthed to the attack, and was filliped to the floorso hard that almost the last particle of breath was knocked out of him.The next leap was nearly his last. He was clutched by the throat. Twothumbs pressed into his neck on either side of the windpipe directly onthe carotid arteries, shutting off the blood to his brain and giving himmost exquisite agony, at the same time rendering him unconscious far moreswiftly than the swiftest anaesthetic. Darkness thrust itself upon him;and, quivering on the floor, glimmeringly he came back to the light ofthe room and to the man who was casually touching a match to a cigaretteand cautiously keeping an observant eye on him.
"Come on," Del Mar challenged. "I know your kind. You can't get mygoat, and maybe I can't get yours entirely, but I can keep you under mythumb to work for me. Come on, you!"
And Michael came. Being a thoroughbred, despite that he knew he wasbeaten by this two-legged thing which was not warm human but was so alienand hard that he might as well attack the wall of a room with his teeth,or a tree-trunk, or a cliff of rock, Michael leapt bare-fanged for thethroat. And all that he leapt against was training, formula. Theexperience was repeated. His throat was gripped, the thumbs shut off theblood from his brain, and darkness smote him. Had he been more than anormal thoroughbred dog, he would have continued to assail hisimpregnable enemy until he burst his heart or fell in a fit. But he wasnormal. Here was something unassailable, adamantine. As little might hewin victory from it, as from the cement-paved sidewalk of a city. Thething was a devil, with the hardness and coldness, the wickedness andwisdom, of a devil. It was as bad as Steward was good. Both were two-legged. Both were gods. But this one was an evil god.
He did not reason all this, nor any of it. Yet, transmuted into humanterms of thought and understanding, it adequately describes the fulnessof his state of mind toward Del Mar. Had Michael been entangled in afight with a warm god, he could have raged and battled blindly,inflicting and receiving hurt in the chaos of conflict, as such a god,being warm, would have likewise received and given hurt, being only aflesh-and-blood, living, breathing entity after all. But this two-leggedgod-devil did not rage blindly and was incapable of passional heat. Hewas like so much cunning, massive steel machinery, and he did whatMichael could never dream he did--and, for that matter, which few humansdo and which all animal trainers do: _he kept one thought ahead ofMichael's thought all the time_, and therefore, was able to have readyone action always in anticipation of Michael's next action. This was thetraining he had received from Harris Collins, who, withal he was asentimental and doting husband and father, was the arch-devil when itcame to animals other than human ones, and who reigned in an animal hellwhich he had created and made lucrative.
* * * * *
Michael went ashore in Seattle all eagerness, straining at his leashuntil he choked and coughed and was coldly cursed by Del Mar. ForMichael was mastered by his expectation that he would meet Steward, andhe looked for him around the first corner, and around all corners withundiminished zeal. But amongst the multitudes of men there was noSteward. Instead, down in the basement of the New Washington Hotel,where electric lights burned always, under the care of the baggageporter, he was tied securely by the neck in the midst of Alpine ranges oftrunks which were for ever being heaped up, sought over, taken down,carried away, or added to.
Three days of this dolorous existence he passed. The porters madefriends with him and offered him prodigious quantities of cooked meatsfrom the leavings of the dining-room. Michael was too disappointed andgrief-stricken over Steward to overeat himself, while Del Mar,accompanied by the manager of the hotel, raised a great row with theporters for violating the feeding instructions.
"That guy's no good," said the head porter to assistant, when Del Mar haddeparted. "He's greasy. I never liked greasy brunettes anyway. Mywife's a brunette, but thank the Lord she ain't greasy."
"Sure," agreed the assistant. "I know his kind. Why, if you'd stick aknife into him he wouldn't bleed blood. It'd be straight liquid lard."
Whereupon the pair of them immediately presented Michael with vasterquantities of meat which he could not eat because the desire for Stewardwas too much with him.
In the meantime Del Mar sent off two telegrams to New York, the first toHarris Collins' animal training school, where his troupe of dogs wasboarding through his vacation:
"_Sell my dogs. You know what they can do and what they are worth. Am done with them. Deduct the board and hold the balance for me until I see you. I have the limit here of a dog. Every turn I ever pulled is put in the shade by this one. He's a ten strike. Wait till you see him_."
The second, to his booking agent:
"_Get busy. Book me over the best. Talk it up. I have the turn. A winner. Nothing like it. Don't talk up top price but way over top price. Prepare them for the dog when I give them the chance for the once over. You know me. I am giving it straight. This will head the bill anywhere all the time_."