CHAPTER XVII
One night Dag Daughtry sat at a table in the saloon called the
Pile-drivers' Home. He was in a parlous predicament. Harder than
ever had it been to secure odd jobs, and he had reached the end of
his savings. Earlier in the evening he had had a telephone
conference with the Ancient Mariner, who had reported only
progress with an exceptionally strong nibble that very day from a
retired quack doctor.
"Let me pawn my rings," the Ancient Mariner had urged, not for the
first time, over the telephone.
"No, sir," had been Daughtry's reply. "We need them in the
business. They're stock in trade. They're atmosphere. They're
what you call a figure of speech. I'll do some thinking to-night
an' see you in the morning, sir. Hold on to them rings an' don't
be no more than casual in playin' that doctor. Make 'm come to
you. It's the only way. Now you're all right, an' everything's
hunkydory an' the goose hangs high. Don't you worry, sir. Dag
Daughtry never fell down yet."
But, as he sat in the Pile-drivers' Home, it looked as if his
fall-down was very near. In his pocket was precisely the room-
rent for the following week, the advance payment of which was
already three days overdue and clamorously demanded by the hard-
faced landlady. In the rooms, with care, was enough food with
which to pinch through for another day. The Ancient Mariner's
modest hotel bill had not been paid for two weeks--a prodigious
sum under the circumstances, being a first-class hotel; while the
Ancient Mariner had no more than a couple of dollars in his pocket
with which to make a sound like prosperity in the ears of the
retired doctor who wanted to go a-treasuring.
Most catastrophic of all, however, was the fact that Dag Daughtry
was three quarts short of his daily allowance and did not dare
break into the rent money which was all that stood between him and
his family and the street. This was why he sat at the beer table
with Captain Jorgensen, who was just returned with a schooner-load
of hay from the Petaluma Flats. He had already bought beer twice,
and evinced no further show of thirst. Instead, he was yawning
from long hours of work and waking and looking at his watch. And
Daughtry was three quarts short! Besides, Hanson had not yet been
smashed, so that the cook-job on the schooner still lay ahead an
unknown distance in the future.
In his desperation, Daughtry hit upon an idea with which to get
another schooner of steam beer. He did not like steam beer, but
it was cheaper than lager.
"Look here, Captain," he said. "You don't know how smart that
Killeny Boy is. Why, he can count just like you and me."
"Hoh!" rumbled Captain Jorgensen. "I seen 'em do it in side
shows. It's all tricks. Dogs an' horses can't count."
"This dog can," Daughtry continued quietly. "You can't fool 'm.
I bet you, right now, I can order two beers, loud so he can hear
and notice, and then whisper to the waiter to bring one, an', when
the one comes, Killeny Boy'll raise a roar with the waiter."
"Hoh! Hoh! How much will you bet?"
The steward fingered a dime in his pocket. If Killeny failed him
it meant that the rent-money would be broken in upon. But Killeny
couldn't and wouldn't fail him, he reasoned, as he answered:
"I'll bet you the price of two beers."
The waiter was summoned, and, when he had received his secret
instructions, Michael was called over from where he lay at
Kwaque's feet in a corner. When Steward placed a chair for him at
the table and invited him into it, he began to key up. Steward
expected something of him, wanted him to show off. And it was not
because of the showing off that he was eager, but because of his
love for Steward. Love and service were one in the simple
processes of Michael's mind. Just as he would have leaped into
fire for Steward's sake, so would he now serve Steward in any way
Steward desired. That was what love meant to him. It was all
love meant to him--service.
"Waiter!" Steward called; and, when the waiter stood close at
hand: "Two beers.--Did you get that, Killeny? TWO beers."
Michael squirmed in his chair, placed an impulsive paw on the
table, and impulsively flashed out his ribbon of tongue to
Steward's close-bending face.
"He will remember," Daughtry told the scow-schooner captain.
"Not if we talk," was the reply. "Now we will fool your bow-wow.
I will say that the job is yours when I smash Hanson. And you
will say it is for me to smash Hanson now. And I will say Hanson
must give me reason first to smash him. And then we will argue
like two fools with mouths full of much noise. Are you ready?"
Daughtry nodded, and thereupon ensued a loud-voiced discussion
that drew Michael's earnest attention from one talker to the
other.
"I got you," Captain Jorgensen announced, as he saw the waiter
approaching with but a single schooner of beer. "The bow-wow has
forgot, if he ever remembered. He thinks you 'an me is fighting.
The place in his mind for ONE beer, and TWO, is wiped out, like a
wave on the beach wipes out the writing in the sand."
"I guess he ain't goin' to forget arithmetic no matter how much
noise you shouts," Daughtry argued aloud against his sinking
spirits. "An' I ain't goin' to butt in," he added hopefully.
"You just watch 'm for himself."
The tall, schooner-glass of beer was placed before the captain,
who laid a swift, containing hand around it. And Michael, strung
as a taut string, knowing that something was expected of him, on
his toes to serve, remembered his ancient lessons on the Makambo,
vainly looked into the impassive face of Steward for a sign, then
looked about and saw, not TWO glasses, but ONE glass. So well had
he learned the difference between one and two that it came to him-
-how the profoundest psychologist can no more state than can he
state what thought is in itself--that there was one glass only
when two glasses had been commanded. With an abrupt upspring, his
throat half harsh with anger, he placed both fore-paws on the
table and barked at the waiter.
Captain Jorgensen crashed his fist down.
"You win!" he roared. "I pay for the beer! Waiter, bring one
more."
Michael looked to Steward for verification, and Steward's hand on
his head gave adequate reply.
"We try again," said the captain, very much awake and interested,
with the back of his hand wiping the beer-foam from his moustache.
"Maybe he knows one an' two. How about three? And four?"
"Just the same, Skipper. He counts up to five, and knows more
than five when it is more than five, though he don't know the
figures by name after five."
"Oh, Hanson!" Captain Jorgensen bellowed across the bar-room to
the cook of the Howard. "Hey, you square-head! Come and have a
drink!"
Hanson came over and pulled up a chair.
"I pay for the drinks," said the captain; "but you order,
Daughtry. See, now, Hanson, this is a trick bow-wow. He can
count better than you. We are three. Daughtry is ordering three
beers. The bow-wow hears three. I hold up two fingers like this
to the waiter. He brings two. The bow-wow raises hell with the
waiter. You see."
All of which came to pass, Michael blissfully unappeasable until
the order was filled properly.
"He can't count," was Hanson's conclusion. "He sees one man
without beer. That's all. He knows every man should ought to
have a glass. That's why he barks."
"Better than that," Daughtry boasted. "There are three of us. We
will order four. Then each man will have his glass, but Killeny
will talk to the waiter just the same."
True enough, now thoroughly aware of the game, Michael made outcry
to the waiter till the fourth glass was brought. By this time
many men were about the table, all wanting to buy beer and test
Michael.
"Glory be," Dag Daughtry solloquized. "A funny world. Thirsty
one moment. The next moment they'd fair drown you in beer."
Several even wanted to buy Michael, offering ridiculous sums like
fifteen and twenty dollars.
"I tell you what," Captain Jorgensen muttered to Daughtry, whom he
had drawn away into a corner. "You give me that bow-wow, and I'll
smash Hanson right now, and you got the job right away--come to
work in the morning."
Into another corner the proprietor of the Pile-drivers' Home drew
Daughtry to whisper to him:
"You stick around here every night with that dog of yourn. It
makes trade. I'll give you free beer any time and fifty cents
cash money a night."
It was this proposition that started the big idea in Daughtry's
mind. As he told Michael, back in the room, while Kwaque was
unlacing his shoes:
"It's this way Killeny. If you're worth fifty cents a night and
free beer to that saloon keeper, then you're worth that to me . .
. and more, my son, more. 'Cause he's lookin' for a profit.
That's why he sells beer instead of buyin' it. An', Killeny, you
won't mind workin' for me, I know. We need the money. There's
Kwaque, an' Mr. Greenleaf, an' Cocky, not even mentioning you an'
me, an' we eat an awful lot. An' room-rent's hard to get, an'
jobs is harder. What d'ye say, son, to-morrow night you an' me
hustle around an' see how much coin we can gather?"
And Michael, seated on Steward's knees, eyes to eyes and nose to
nose, his jowls held in Steward's hand's wriggled and squirmed
with delight, flipping out his tongue and bobbing his tail in the
air. Whatever it was, it was good, for it was Steward who spoke.
