Michael never liked these lessons, for, looking down upon Kwaque, he hated in any way to be under the black’s compulsion.  But all this was changed when Dag Daughtry surprised them at a singing lesson.  He resurrected the harmonica with which it was his wont, ashore in public-houses, to while away the time between bottles.  The quickest way to start Michael singing, he discovered, was with minors; and, once started, he would sing on and on for as long as the music played.  Also, in the absence of an instrument, Michael would sing to the prompting and accompaniment of Steward’s voice, who would begin by wailing “kow-kow” long and sadly, and then branch out on some old song or ballad.  Michael had hated to sing with Kwaque, but he loved to do it with Steward, even when Steward brought him on deck to perform before the laughter-shrieking passengers.

Two serious conversations were held by the steward toward the close of the voyage:  one with Captain Duncan and one with Michael.

“It’s this way, Killeny,” Daughtry began, one evening, Michael’s head resting on his lord’s knees as he gazed adoringly up into his lord’s face, understanding no whit of what was spoken but loving the intimacy the sounds betokened.  “I stole you for beer money, an’ when I saw you there on the beach that night I knew you’d bring ten quid anywheres.  Ten quid’s a horrible lot of money.  Fifty dollars in the way the Yankees reckon it, an’ a hundred Mex in China fashion.

“Now, fifty dollars gold ’d buy beer to beat the band—­enough to drown me if I fell in head first.  Yet I want to ask you one question.  Can you see me takin’ ten quid for you? . . .  Go on.  Speak up.  Can you?”

And Michael, with thumps of tail to the floor and a high sharp bark, showed that he was in entire agreement with whatever had been propounded.

“Or say twenty quid, now.  That’s a fair offer.  Would I?  Eh!  Would I?  Not on your life.  What d’ye say to fifty quid?  That might begin to interest me, but a hundred quid would interest me more.  Why, a hundred quid all in beer ‘d come pretty close to floatin’ this old hooker.  But who in Sam Hill’d offer a hundred quid?  I’d like to clap eyes on him once, that’s all, just once.  D’ye want to know what for?  All right.  I’ll whisper it.  So as I could tell him to go to hell.  Sure, Killeny Boy, just like that—­oh, most polite, of course, just a kindly directin’ of his steps where he’d never suffer from frigid extremities.”

Michael’s love for Steward was so profound as almost to be a mad but enduring infatuation.  What the steward’s regard for Michael was coming to be was best evidenced by his conversation with Captain Duncan.

“Sure, sir, he must ’ve followed me on board,” Daughtry finished his unveracious recital.  “An’ I never knew it.  Last I seen of ’m was on the beach.  Next I seen of ’m there, he was fast asleep in my bunk.  Now how’d he get there, sir?  How’d he pick out my room?  I leave it to you, sir.  I call it marvellous, just plain marvellous.”