Michael, Brother of Jerry

by Jack London

  CHAPTER XXXIV

  It was in the Orpheum Theatre, of Oakland, California; and Harley Kennanwas in the act of reaching under his seat for his hat, when his wifesaid:

  "Why, this isn't the interval. There's one more turn yet."

  "A dog turn," he answered, and thereby explained; for it was his practiceto leave a theatre during the period of the performance of an animal-act.

  Villa Kennan glanced hastily at the programme.

  "Of course," she said, then added: "But it's a singing dog. A dogCaruso. And it points out that there is no one on the stage with thedog. Let us stay for once, and see how he compares with Jerry."

  "Some poor brute tormented into howling," Harley grumbled.

  "But it has the stage to itself," Villa urged. "Besides, if it ispainful, then we can go out. I'll go out with you. But I just wouldlike to see how much better Jerry sings than does he. And it says anIrish terrier, too."

  So Harley Kennan remained. The two burnt-cork comedians finished theirturn and their three encores, and the curtain behind them went up on afull set of an empty stage. A rough-coated Irish terrier entered at asedate walk, sedately walked forward to the centre, nearly to thefootlights, and faced the leader of the orchestra. As the programme hadstated, he had the stage to himself.

  The orchestra played the opening strains of "Sweet Bye and Bye." The dogyawned and sat down. But the orchestra was thoroughly instructed to playthe opening strains over and over, until the dog responded, and then tofollow on with him. By the third time, the dog opened his mouth andbegan. It was not a mere howling. For that matter, it was too mellow tobe classified as a howl at all. Nor was it merely rhythmic. The notesthe dog sang were of the air, and they were correct.

  But Villa Kennan scarcely heard.

  "He has Jerry beaten a mile," Harley muttered to her.

  "Listen," she replied, in tense whispers. "Did you ever see that dogbefore?"

  Harley shook his head.

  "You have seen him before," she insisted. "Look at that crinkled ear.Think! Think back! Remember!"

  Still her husband shook his head.

  "Remember the Solomons," she pressed. "Remember the _Ariel_. Rememberwhen we came back from Malaita, where we picked Jerry up, to Tulagi, thathe had a brother there, a nigger-chaser on a schooner."

  "And his name was Michael--go on."

  "And he had that self-same crinkled ear," she hurried. "And he was rough-coated. And he was full brother to Jerry. And their father and motherwere Terrence and Biddy of Meringe. And Jerry is our Sing Song Silly.And this dog sings. And he has a crinkled ear. And his name isMichael."

  "Impossible," said Harley.

  "It is when the impossible comes true that life proves worth while," sheretorted. "And this is one of those worth-whiles of impossibles. I knowit."

  Still the man of him said impossible, and still the woman of her insistedthat this was an impossible come true. By this time the dog on the stagewas singing "God Save the King."

  "That shows I am right," Villa contended. "No American, in America,would teach a dog 'God Save the King.' An Englishman originally ownedthat dog and taught it. The Solomons are British."

  "That's a far cry," he smiled. "But what gets me is that ear. Iremember it now. I remember the day when we were on the beach at Tulagiwith Jerry, and when his brother came ashore from the _Eugenie_ in awhaleboat. And his brother had that self-same, loppy, crinkled ear."

  "And more," Villa argued. "How many singing dogs have we ever known!Only one--Jerry. Evidently such a type occurs rarely. The same familywould more likely produce similar types than different families. Thefamily of Terrence and Biddy produced Jerry. And this is Michael."

  "He _was_ rough-coated, along with a crinkly ear," Harley meditated back."I see him distinctly as he stood up in the bow of the whaleboat and ashe ran along the beach side by side with Jerry."

  "If Jerry should to-morrow run side by side with him you would beconvinced?" she queried.

  "It was their trick, and the trick of Terrence and Biddy before them," heagreed. "But it's a far cry from the Solomons to the United States."

  "Jerry is such a far cry," she replied. "And if Jerry won from theSolomons to California, then is there anything more remarkable in Michaelso winning?--Oh, listen!"

  For the dog on the stage, now responding to its one encore, was singing"Home, Sweet Home." This finished, Jacob Henderson, to tumultuousapplause, came on the stage from the wings and joined the dog in bowing.Villa and Harley sat in silence for a moment. Then Villa said, aproposof nothing:

  "I have been sitting here and feeling very grateful for one particularthing."

  He waited.

  "It is that we are so abominably wealthy," she concluded.

  "Which means that you want the dog, must have him, and are going to gothim, just because I can afford to do it for you," he teased.

  "Because you can't afford not to," she answered. "You must know he isJerry's brother. At least, you must have a sneaking suspicion . . . ?"

  "I have," he nodded. "The thing that can't sometimes does, and there isa chance that this may be one of those times. Of course, it isn'tMichael; but, on the other hand, what's to prevent it from being Michael?Let us go behind and find out."

  * * * * *

  "More agents of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals,"was Jacob Henderson's thought, as the man and woman, accompanied by themanager of the theatre, were shown into his tiny dressing-room. Michael,on a chair and half asleep, took no notice of them. While Harley talkedwith Henderson, Villa investigated Michael; and Michael scarcely openedhis eyes ere he closed them again. Too sour on the human world, and tooglum in his own soured nature, he was anything save his old courtly selfto chance humans who broke in upon him to pat his head, and say sillythings, and go their way never to be seen by him again.

  Villa Kennan, with a pang of disappointment at such rebuff, forwent herovertures for the moment, and listened to what tale Jacob Henderson couldtell of his dog. Harry Del Mar, a trained-animal man, had picked the dogup somewhere on the Pacific Coast, most probably in San Francisco, shelearned; but, having taken the dog east with him, Harry Del Mar had diedby accident in New York before telling anybody anything about the animal.That was all, except that Henderson had paid two thousand dollars to oneHarris Collins, and had found the investment the finest he had ever made.

  Villa turned back to the dog.

  "Michael," she called, caressingly, almost in a whisper.

  And Michael's eyes partly opened, the base-muscles of his ears stiffened,and his body quivered.

  "Michael," she repeated.

  This time raising his head, the eyes open and the ears stiffly erect,Michael looked at her. Not since on the beach at Tulagi had he heardthat name uttered. Across the years and the seas the word came to himout of the past. Its effect was electrical, for on the instant all theconnotations of "Michael" flooded his consciousness. He saw againCaptain Kellar, of the _Eugenie_, who had last called him it, and_Mister_ Haggin, and Derby, and Bob of Meringe Plantation, and Biddy andTerrence, and, not least among these shades of the vanished past, hisbrother Jerry.

  But was it the vanished past? The name which had ceased for years, hadcome back. It had entered the room along with this man and woman. Allthis he did not reason; but indubitably, as if he had so reasoned, heacted upon it.

  He jumped from the chair and ran to the woman. He smelled her hand, andsmelled her as she patted him. Then, as he recognized her, he went wild.He sprang away, dashing around and around the room, sniffing under thewashstand and smelling out the corners. As in a frenzy he was back tothe woman, whimpering eagerly as she strove to pet him. The next moment,stiff in a frenzy, he was away again, scurrying about the room and stillwhimpering.

  Jacob Henderson looked on with mild disapproval.

  "He never cuts up that way," he said. "He is a very quiet dog. Maybe itis a fit he is going to have, though he never has
fits."

  No one understood, not even Villa Kennan. But Michael understood. Hewas looking for that vanished world which had rushed back upon him atsound of his old-time name. If this name could come to him out of theNothingness, as this woman had whom once he had seen treading the beachat Tulagi, then could all other things of Tulagi and the Nothingness cometo him. As she was there, before him in the living flesh, uttering hisname, so might Captain Kellar, and _Mister_ Haggin, and Jerry be there,somewhere in the very room or just outside the door.

  He ran to the door, whimpering as he scratched at it.

  "Maybe he thinks there is something outside," said Jacob Henderson,opening the door for him.

  And Michael did so think. As a matter of course, through that open door,he was prepared to have the South-Pacific Ocean flow in, bearing on itsbosom schooners and ships, islands and reefs, and all men and animals andthings he once had known and still remembered.

  But no past flowed in through the door. Outside was the usual present.He came back dejectedly to the woman, who still called him Michael as shepetted him. She, at any rate, was real. Next he carefully smelled andidentified the man with the beach of Tulagi and the deck of the _Ariel_,and again his excitement began to mount.

  "Oh, Harley, I know it is he!" Villa cried. "Can't you test him? Can'tyou prove him?"

  "But how?" Harley pondered. "He seems to recognize his name. It exciteshim. And though he never knew us very well, he seems to remember us andto be excited by us, too. If only he could talk . . . "

  "Oh, talk! Talk!" Villa pleaded with Michael, catching both sides of hishead and jaws in her hands and swaying him back and forth.

  "Be careful, madam," Jacob Henderson warned. "He is a very sour dog; andhe don't let people take such liberties."

  "He does me," she laughed, half-hysterically. "Because he knows me. . . .Harley!" She broke off as the great idea dawned on her. "I have atest. Listen! Remember, Jerry was a nigger-chaser before we got him.And Michael was a nigger-chaser. You talk in beche-de-mer. Appear angrywith some black boy, and see how it will affect him."

  "I'll have to remember hard to resurrect any beche-de-mer," Harley said,nodding approval of the suggestion.

  "At the same time I'll distract him," she rushed on.

  Sitting down and bending forward to Michael so that his head was buriedin her arms and breast, she began swaying him and crooning to him as washer wont with Jerry. Nor did he resent the liberty she took, and, likeJerry, he yielded to her crooning and softly began to croon with her. Shesignalled Harley with her eyes.

  "My word!" he began in tones of wrath. "What name you fella boy stop 'malong this fella place? You make 'm me cross along you any amount!"

  And at the words Michael bristled, dragged himself clear of the woman'sdetaining hands, and, with a snarl, whirled about to get a look at theblack boy who must have just then entered the room and aroused the whitegod's ire. But there was no black boy. He looked on, still bristling,to the door. Harley transferred his own gaze to the door, and Michaelknew, beyond all doubt, that outside the door was standing a Solomonsnigger.

  "Hey! Michael!" Harley shouted. "Chase 'm that black fella boyoverside!"

  With a roaring snarl, Michael flung himself at the door. Such was thefury and weight of his onslaught that the latch flew loose and the doorswung open. The emptiness of the space which he had expected to seeoccupied, was appalling, and he shrank down, sick and dizzy with thebaffling apparitional past that thus vexed his consciousness.

  "And now," said Harley to Jacob Henderson, "we will talk business . . . "