Wolf Larsen ceased swearing as suddenly as he had begun. He relightedhis cigar and glanced around. His eyes chanced upon the cook.

“Well, Cooky?” he began, with a suaveness that was cold and of the temperof steel.

“Yes, sir,” the cook eagerly interpolated, with appeasing and apologeticservility.

“Don’t you think you’ve stretched that neck of yours just about enough?It’s unhealthy, you know. The mate’s gone, so I can’t afford to lose youtoo. You must be very, very careful of your health, Cooky. Understand?”

His last word, in striking contrast with the smoothness of his previousutterance, snapped like the lash of a whip. The cook quailed under it.

“Yes, sir,” was the meek reply, as the offending head disappeared intothe galley.

At this sweeping rebuke, which the cook had only pointed, the rest of thecrew became uninterested and fell to work at one task or another. Anumber of men, however, who were lounging about a companion-way betweenthe galley and hatch, and who did not seem to be sailors, continuedtalking in low tones with one another. These, I afterward learned, werethe hunters, the men who shot the seals, and a very superior breed tocommon sailor-folk.

“Johansen!” Wolf Larsen called out. A sailor stepped forward obediently.“Get your palm and needle and sew the beggar up. You’ll find some oldcanvas in the sail-locker. Make it do.”

“What’ll I put on his feet, sir?” the man asked, after the customary “Ay,ay, sir.”

“We’ll see to that,” Wolf Larsen answered, and elevated his voice in acall of “Cooky!”

Thomas Mugridge popped out of his galley like a jack-in-the-box.

“Go below and fill a sack with coal.”

“Any of you fellows got a Bible or Prayer-book?” was the captain’s nextdemand, this time of the hunters lounging about the companion-way.

They shook their heads, and some one made a jocular remark which I didnot catch, but which raised a general laugh.

Wolf Larsen made the same demand of the sailors. Bibles and Prayer-booksseemed scarce articles, but one of the men volunteered to pursue thequest amongst the watch below, returning in a minute with the informationthat there was none.

The captain shrugged his shoulders. “Then we’ll drop him over withoutany palavering, unless our clerical-looking castaway has the burialservice at sea by heart.”

By this time he had swung fully around and was facing me. “You’re apreacher, aren’t you?” he asked.

The hunters,—there were six of them,—to a man, turned and regarded me. Iwas painfully aware of my likeness to a scarecrow. A laugh went up at myappearance,—a laugh that was not lessened or softened by the dead manstretched and grinning on the deck before us; a laugh that was as roughand harsh and frank as the sea itself; that arose out of coarse feelingsand blunted sensibilities, from natures that knew neither courtesy norgentleness.

Wolf Larsen did not laugh, though his grey eyes lighted with a slightglint of amusement; and in that moment, having stepped forward quiteclose to him, I received my first impression of the man himself, of theman as apart from his body, and from the torrent of blasphemy I had heardhim spew forth. The face, with large features and strong lines, of thesquare order, yet well filled out, was apparently massive at first sight;but again, as with the body, the massiveness seemed to vanish, and aconviction to grow of a tremendous and excessive mental or spiritualstrength that lay behind, sleeping in the deeps of his being. The jaw,the chin, the brow rising to a goodly height and swelling heavily abovethe eyes,—these, while strong in themselves, unusually strong, seemed tospeak an immense vigour or virility of spirit that lay behind and beyondand out of sight. There was no sounding such a spirit, no measuring, nodetermining of metes and bounds, nor neatly classifying in somepigeon-hole with others of similar type.

The eyes—and it was my destiny to know them well—were large and handsome,wide apart as the true artist’s are wide, sheltering under a heavy browand arched over by thick black eyebrows. The eyes themselves were ofthat baffling protean grey which is never twice the same; which runsthrough many shades and colourings like intershot silk in sunshine; whichis grey, dark and light, and greenish-grey, and sometimes of the clearazure of the deep sea. They were eyes that masked the soul with athousand guises, and that sometimes opened, at rare moments, and allowedit to rush up as though it were about to fare forth nakedly into theworld on some wonderful adventure,—eyes that could brood with thehopeless sombreness of leaden skies; that could snap and crackle pointsof fire like those which sparkle from a whirling sword; that could growchill as an arctic landscape, and yet again, that could warm and softenand be all a-dance with love-lights, intense and masculine, luring andcompelling, which at the same time fascinate and dominate women till theysurrender in a gladness of joy and of relief and sacrifice.

But to return. I told him that, unhappily for the burial service, I wasnot a preacher, when he sharply demanded:

“What do you do for a living?”

I confess I had never had such a question asked me before, nor had I evercanvassed it. I was quite taken aback, and before I could find myselfhad sillily stammered, “I—I am a gentleman.”

His lip curled in a swift sneer.

“I have worked, I do work,” I cried impetuously, as though he were myjudge and I required vindication, and at the same time very much aware ofmy arrant idiocy in discussing the subject at all.

“For your living?”

There was something so imperative and masterful about him that I wasquite beside myself—“rattled,” as Furuseth would have termed it, like aquaking child before a stern school-master.

“Who feeds you?” was his next question.

“I have an income,” I answered stoutly, and could have bitten my tonguethe next instant. “All of which, you will pardon my observing, hasnothing whatsoever to do with what I wish to see you about.”

But he disregarded my protest.

“Who earned it? Eh? I thought so. Your father. You stand on deadmen’s legs. You’ve never had any of your own. You couldn’t walk alonebetween two sunrises and hustle the meat for your belly for three meals.Let me see your hand.”

His tremendous, dormant strength must have stirred, swiftly andaccurately, or I must have slept a moment, for before I knew it he hadstepped two paces forward, gripped my right hand in his, and held it upfor inspection. I tried to withdraw it, but his fingers tightened,without visible effort, till I thought mine would be crushed. It is hardto maintain one’s dignity under such circumstances. I could not squirmor struggle like a schoolboy. Nor could I attack such a creature who hadbut to twist my arm to break it. Nothing remained but to stand still andaccept the indignity. I had time to notice that the pockets of the deadman had been emptied on the deck, and that his body and his grin had beenwrapped from view in canvas, the folds of which the sailor, Johansen, wassewing together with coarse white twine, shoving the needle through witha leather contrivance fitted on the palm of his hand.

Wolf Larsen dropped my hand with a flirt of disdain.

“Dead men’s hands have kept it soft. Good for little else thandish-washing and scullion work.”

“I wish to be put ashore,” I said firmly, for I now had myself incontrol. “I shall pay you whatever you judge your delay and trouble tobe worth.”

He looked at me curiously. Mockery shone in his eyes.

“I have a counter proposition to make, and for the good of your soul. Mymate’s gone, and there’ll be a lot of promotion. A sailor comes aft totake mate’s place, cabin-boy goes for’ard to take sailor’s place, and youtake the cabin-boy’s place, sign the articles for the cruise, twentydollars per month and found. Now what do you say? And mind you, it’sfor your own soul’s sake. It will be the making of you. You might learnin time to stand on your own legs, and perhaps to toddle along a bit.”

But I took no notice. The sails of the vessel I had seen off to thesouth-west had grown larger and plainer. They were of the sameschooner-rig as the _Ghost_, though the hull itself, I could see, wassmaller. She was a pretty sight, leaping and flying toward us, andevidently bound to pass at close range. The wind had been momentarilyincreasing, and the sun, after a few angry gleams, had disappeared. Thesea had turned a dull leaden grey and grown rougher, and was now tossingfoaming whitecaps to the sky. We were travelling faster, and heeledfarther over. Once, in a gust, the rail dipped under the sea, and thedecks on that side were for the moment awash with water that made acouple of the hunters hastily lift their feet.

“That vessel will soon be passing us,” I said, after a moment’s pause.“As she is going in the opposite direction, she is very probably boundfor San Francisco.”

“Very probably,” was Wolf Larsen’s answer, as he turned partly away fromme and cried out, “Cooky! Oh, Cooky!”

The Cockney popped out of the galley.

“Where’s that boy? Tell him I want him.”

“Yes, sir;” and Thomas Mugridge fled swiftly aft and disappeared downanother companion-way near the wheel. A moment later he emerged, aheavy-set young fellow of eighteen or nineteen, with a glowering,villainous countenance, trailing at his heels.

“’Ere ’e is, sir,” the cook said.

But Wolf Larsen ignored that worthy, turning at once to the cabin-boy.

“What’s your name, boy?”

“George Leach, sir,” came the sullen answer, and the boy’s bearing showedclearly that he divined the reason for which he had been summoned.

“Not an Irish name,” the captain snapped sharply. “O’Toole or McCarthywould suit your mug a damn sight better. Unless, very likely, there’s anIrishman in your mother’s woodpile.”

I saw the young fellow’s hands clench at the insult, and the blood crawlscarlet up his neck.

“But let that go,” Wolf Larsen continued. “You may have very goodreasons for forgetting your name, and I’ll like you none the worse for itas long as you toe the mark. Telegraph Hill, of course, is your port ofentry. It sticks out all over your mug. Tough as they make them andtwice as nasty. I know the kind. Well, you can make up your mind tohave it taken out of you on this craft. Understand? Who shipped you,anyway?”

“McCready and Swanson.”

“Sir!” Wolf Larsen thundered.

“McCready and Swanson, sir,” the boy corrected, his eyes burning with abitter light.

“Who got the advance money?”

“They did, sir.”

“I thought as much. And damned glad you were to let them have it.Couldn’t make yourself scarce too quick, with several gentlemen you mayhave heard of looking for you.”

The boy metamorphosed into a savage on the instant. His body bunchedtogether as though for a spring, and his face became as an infuriatedbeast’s as he snarled, “It’s a—”

“A what?” Wolf Larsen asked, a peculiar softness in his voice, as thoughhe were overwhelmingly curious to hear the unspoken word.

The boy hesitated, then mastered his temper. “Nothin’, sir. I take itback.”

“And you have shown me I was right.” This with a gratified smile. “Howold are you?”

“Just turned sixteen, sir,”

“A lie. You’ll never see eighteen again. Big for your age at that, withmuscles like a horse. Pack up your kit and go for’ard into the fo’c’sle.You’re a boat-puller now. You’re promoted; see?”

Without waiting for the boy’s acceptance, the captain turned to thesailor who had just finished the gruesome task of sewing up the corpse.“Johansen, do you know anything about navigation?”

“No, sir,”

“Well, never mind; you’re mate just the same. Get your traps aft intothe mate’s berth.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” was the cheery response, as Johansen started forward.

In the meantime the erstwhile cabin-boy had not moved. “What are youwaiting for?” Wolf Larsen demanded.

“I didn’t sign for boat-puller, sir,” was the reply. “I signed forcabin-boy. An’ I don’t want no boat-pullin’ in mine.”

“Pack up and go for’ard.”

This time Wolf Larsen’s command was thrillingly imperative. The boyglowered sullenly, but refused to move.

Then came another stirring of Wolf Larsen’s tremendous strength. It wasutterly unexpected, and it was over and done with between the ticks oftwo seconds. He had sprung fully six feet across the deck and driven hisfist into the other’s stomach. At the same moment, as though I had beenstruck myself, I felt a sickening shock in the pit of my stomach. Iinstance this to show the sensitiveness of my nervous organization at thetime, and how unused I was to spectacles of brutality. The cabin-boy—andhe weighed one hundred and sixty-five at the very least—crumpled up. Hisbody wrapped limply about the fist like a wet rag about a stick. Helifted into the air, described a short curve, and struck the deckalongside the corpse on his head and shoulders, where he lay and writhedabout in agony.

“Well?” Larsen asked of me. “Have you made up your mind?”

I had glanced occasionally at the approaching schooner, and it was nowalmost abreast of us and not more than a couple of hundred yards away.It was a very trim and neat little craft. I could see a large, blacknumber on one of its sails, and I had seen pictures of pilot-boats.

“What vessel is that?” I asked.

“The pilot-boat _Lady Mine_,” Wolf Larsen answered grimly. “Got rid ofher pilots and running into San Francisco. She’ll be there in five orsix hours with this wind.”

“Will you please signal it, then, so that I may be put ashore.”

“Sorry, but I’ve lost the signal book overboard,” he remarked, and thegroup of hunters grinned.

I debated a moment, looking him squarely in the eyes. I had seen thefrightful treatment of the cabin-boy, and knew that I should veryprobably receive the same, if not worse. As I say, I debated withmyself, and then I did what I consider the bravest act of my life. I ranto the side, waving my arms and shouting:

“_Lady Mine_ ahoy! Take me ashore! A thousand dollars if you take meashore!”

I waited, watching two men who stood by the wheel, one of them steering.The other was lifting a megaphone to his lips. I did not turn my head,though I expected every moment a killing blow from the human brute behindme. At last, after what seemed centuries, unable longer to stand thestrain, I looked around. He had not moved. He was standing in the sameposition, swaying easily to the roll of the ship and lighting a freshcigar.

“What is the matter? Anything wrong?”

This was the cry from the _Lady Mine_.

“Yes!” I shouted, at the top of my lungs. “Life or death! One thousanddollars if you take me ashore!”

“Too much ’Frisco tanglefoot for the health of my crew!” Wolf Larsenshouted after. “This one”—indicating me with his thumb—“fanciessea-serpents and monkeys just now!”

The man on the _Lady Mine_ laughed back through the megaphone. Thepilot-boat plunged past.

“Give him hell for me!” came a final cry, and the two men waved theirarms in farewell.

I leaned despairingly over the rail, watching the trim little schoonerswiftly increasing the bleak sweep of ocean between us. And she wouldprobably be in San Francisco in five or six hours! My head seemedbursting. There was an ache in my throat as though my heart were up init. A curling wave struck the side and splashed salt spray on my lips.The wind puffed strongly, and the _Ghost_ heeled far over, burying herlee rail. I could hear the water rushing down upon the deck.

When I turned around, a moment later, I saw the cabin-boy staggering tohis feet. His face was ghastly white, twitching with suppressed pain.He looked very sick.

“Well, Leach, are you going for’ard?” Wolf Larsen asked.

“Yes, sir,” came the answer of a spirit cowed.

“And you?” I was asked.

“I’ll give you a thousand—” I began, but was interrupted.

“Stow that! Are you going to take up your duties as cabin-boy? Or do Ihave to take you in hand?”

What was I to do? To be brutally beaten, to be killed perhaps, would nothelp my case. I looked steadily into the cruel grey eyes. They mighthave been granite for all the light and warmth of a human soul theycontained. One may see the soul stir in some men’s eyes, but his werebleak, and cold, and grey as the sea itself.

“Well?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Say ‘yes, sir.’”

“Yes, sir,” I corrected.

“What is your name?”

“Van Weyden, sir.”

“First name?”

“Humphrey, sir; Humphrey Van Weyden.”

“Age?”

“Thirty-five, sir.”

“That’ll do. Go to the cook and learn your duties.”

And thus it was that I passed into a state of involuntary servitude toWolf Larsen. He was stronger than I, that was all. But it was veryunreal at the time. It is no less unreal now that I look back upon it.It will always be to me a monstrous, inconceivable thing, a horriblenightmare.

“Hold on, don’t go yet.”

I stopped obediently in my walk toward the galley.

“Johansen, call all hands. Now that we’ve everything cleaned up, we’llhave the funeral and get the decks cleared of useless lumber.”

While Johansen was summoning the watch below, a couple of sailors, underthe captain’s direction, laid the canvas-swathed corpse upon ahatch-cover. On either side the deck, against the rail and bottoms up,were lashed a number of small boats. Several men picked up thehatch-cover with its ghastly freight, carried it to the lee side, andrested it on the boats, the feet pointing overboard. To the feet wasattached the sack of coal which the cook had fetched.

I had always conceived a burial at sea to be a very solemn andawe-inspiring event, but I was quickly disillusioned, by this burial atany rate. One of the hunters, a little dark-eyed man whom his matescalled “Smoke,” was telling stories, liberally intersprinkled with oathsand obscenities; and every minute or so the group of hunters gave mouthto a laughter that sounded to me like a wolf-chorus or the barking ofhell-hounds. The sailors trooped noisily aft, some of the watch belowrubbing the sleep from their eyes, and talked in low tones together.There was an ominous and worried expression on their faces. It wasevident that they did not like the outlook of a voyage under such acaptain and begun so inauspiciously. From time to time they stoleglances at Wolf Larsen, and I could see that they were apprehensive ofthe man.

He stepped up to the hatch-cover, and all caps came off. I ran my eyesover them—twenty men all told; twenty-two including the man at the wheeland myself. I was pardonably curious in my survey, for it appeared myfate to be pent up with them on this miniature floating world for I knewnot how many weeks or months. The sailors, in the main, were English andScandinavian, and their faces seemed of the heavy, stolid order. Thehunters, on the other hand, had stronger and more diversified faces, withhard lines and the marks of the free play of passions. Strange to say,and I noted it all once, Wolf Larsen’s features showed no such evilstamp. There seemed nothing vicious in them. True, there were lines,but they were the lines of decision and firmness. It seemed, rather, afrank and open countenance, which frankness or openness was enhanced bythe fact that he was smooth-shaven. I could hardly believe—until thenext incident occurred—that it was the face of a man who could behave ashe had behaved to the cabin-boy.

At this moment, as he opened his mouth to speak, puff after puff struckthe schooner and pressed her side under. The wind shrieked a wild songthrough the rigging. Some of the hunters glanced anxiously aloft. Thelee rail, where the dead man lay, was buried in the sea, and as theschooner lifted and righted the water swept across the deck wetting usabove our shoe-tops. A shower of rain drove down upon us, each dropstinging like a hailstone. As it passed, Wolf Larsen began to speak, thebare-headed men swaying in unison, to the heave and lunge of the deck.

“I only remember one part of the service,” he said, “and that is, ‘Andthe body shall be cast into the sea.’ So cast it in.”

He ceased speaking. The men holding the hatch-cover seemed perplexed,puzzled no doubt by the briefness of the ceremony. He burst upon them ina fury.

“Lift up that end there, damn you! What the hell’s the matter with you?”

They elevated the end of the hatch-cover with pitiful haste, and, like adog flung overside, the dead man slid feet first into the sea. The coalat his feet dragged him down. He was gone.

“Johansen,” Wolf Larsen said briskly to the new mate, “keep all hands ondeck now they’re here. Get in the topsails and jibs and make a good jobof it. We’re in for a sou’-easter. Better reef the jib and mainsailtoo, while you’re about it.”

In a moment the decks were in commotion, Johansen bellowing orders andthe men pulling or letting go ropes of various sorts—all naturallyconfusing to a landsman such as myself. But it was the heartlessness ofit that especially struck me. The dead man was an episode that was past,an incident that was dropped, in a canvas covering with a sack of coal,while the ship sped along and her work went on. Nobody had beenaffected. The hunters were laughing at a fresh story of Smoke’s; the menpulling and hauling, and two of them climbing aloft; Wolf Larsen wasstudying the clouding sky to windward; and the dead man, dying obscenely,buried sordidly, and sinking down, down—

Then it was that the cruelty of the sea, its relentlessness andawfulness, rushed upon me. Life had become cheap and tawdry, a beastlyand inarticulate thing, a soulless stirring of the ooze and slime. Iheld on to the weather rail, close by the shrouds, and gazed out acrossthe desolate foaming waves to the low-lying fog-banks that hid SanFrancisco and the California coast. Rain-squalls were driving inbetween, and I could scarcely see the fog. And this strange vessel, withits terrible men, pressed under by wind and sea and ever leaping up andout, was heading away into the south-west, into the great and lonelyPacific expanse.