Jerry of the Islands eBook

This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 208 pages of information about Jerry of the Islands.

CHAPTER VI

At recognition of Skipper’s voice, Jerry, floundering in the stiff and crisping sea that sprang up with the easement of the wind, yelped eagerly and yearningly, all his love for his new-found beloved eloquent in his throat.  But quickly all sounds died away as the Arangi drifted from him.  And then, in the loneliness of the dark, on the heaving breast of the sea that he recognized as one more of the eternal enemies, he began to whimper and cry plaintively like a lost child.

Further, by the dim, shadowy ways of intuition, he knew his weakness in that merciless sea with no heart of warmth, that threatened the unknowable thing, vaguely but terribly guessed, namely, death.  As regarded himself, he did not comprehend death.  He, who had never known the time when he was not alive, could not conceive of the time when he would cease to be alive.

Yet it was there, shouting its message of warning through every tissue cell, every nerve quickness and brain sensitivity of him—­a totality of sensation that foreboded the ultimate catastrophe of life about which he knew nothing at all, but which, nevertheless, he felt to be the conclusive supreme disaster.  Although he did not comprehend it, he apprehended it no less poignantly than do men who know and generalize far more deeply and widely than mere four-legged dogs.

As a man struggles in the throes of nightmare, so Jerry struggled in the vexed, salt-suffocating sea.  And so he whimpered and cried, lost child, lost puppy-dog that he was, only half a year existent in the fair world sharp with joy and suffering.  And he wanted Skipper.  Skipper was a god.

* * * * *

On board the Arangi, relieved by the lowering of her mainsail, as the fierceness went out of the wind and the cloudburst of tropic rain began to fall, Van Horn and Borckman lurched toward each other in the blackness.

“A double squall,” said Van Horn.  “Hit us to starboard and to port.”

“Must a-split in half just before she hit us,” the mate concurred.

“And kept all the rain in the second half—­”

Van Horn broke off with an oath.

“Hey!  What’s the matter along you fella boy?” he shouted to the man at the wheel.

For the ketch, under her spanker which had just then been flat-hauled, had come into the wind, emptying her after-sail and permitting her headsails to fill on the other tack.  The Arangi was beginning to work back approximately over the course she had just traversed.  And this meant that she was going back toward Jerry floundering in the sea.  Thus, the balance, on which his life titubated, was inclined in his favour by the blunder of a black steersman.

Keeping the Arangi on the new tack, Van Horn set Borckman clearing the mess of ropes on deck, himself, squatting in the rain, undertaking to long-splice the tackle he had cut.  As the rain thinned, so that the crackle of it on deck became less noisy, he was attracted by a sound from out over the water.  He suspended the work of his hands to listen, and, when he recognized Jerry’s wailing, sprang to his feet, galvanized into action.

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Jerry of the Islands from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
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