With the midday reunion my hour of distinction arrived. The tale
of the ghost-pig was told from the beginning by Cookie, with high
tributes to my courage in sallying forth in pursuit of the phantom.
Even those holding other views of the genesis of the white dog were
amazed at his presence on the island. In spite of Cookie's
aspersions, the creature was no mongrel, but a thoroughbred of
points. Not by any means a dog which some little South American
coaster might have abandoned here when it put in for water. The
most reasonable hypothesis seemed to be that he had belonged to the
copra gatherer, and was for some reason left behind on his master's
departure. But who that had loved a dog enough to make it the
companion of his solitude would go away and leave it? The thing
seemed to me incredible. Yet here, otherwise unaccounted for, was
the corporeal presence of the dog.
I had named the terrier in the first ten minutes of our
acquaintance. Crusoe was the designation by which he was presented
to his new associates. It was good to see how swiftly the habits
of civilization returned to him. Soon he was getting under foot
and courting caresses as eagerly as though all his life he had
lived on human bounty, instead of bringing down his own game in
royal freedom. Yet with all his well-bred geniality there was no
wandering of his allegiance.
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