Three days of rest, three blessed days of rest, are what I had with WolfLarsen, eating at the cabin table and doing nothing but discuss life,literature, and the universe, the while Thomas Mugridge fumed and ragedand did my work as well as his own.

“Watch out for squalls, is all I can say to you,” was Louis’s warning,given during a spare half-hour on deck while Wolf Larsen was engaged instraightening out a row among the hunters.

“Ye can’t tell what’ll be happenin’,” Louis went on, in response to myquery for more definite information. “The man’s as contrary as aircurrents or water currents. You can never guess the ways iv him. ’Tisjust as you’re thinkin’ you know him and are makin’ a favourable slantalong him, that he whirls around, dead ahead and comes howlin’ down uponyou and a-rippin’ all iv your fine-weather sails to rags.”

So I was not altogether surprised when the squall foretold by Louis smoteme. We had been having a heated discussion,—upon life, of course,—and,grown over-bold, I was passing stiff strictures upon Wolf Larsen and thelife of Wolf Larsen. In fact, I was vivisecting him and turning over hissoul-stuff as keenly and thoroughly as it was his custom to do it toothers. It may be a weakness of mine that I have an incisive way ofspeech; but I threw all restraint to the winds and cut and slashed untilthe whole man of him was snarling. The dark sun-bronze of his face wentblack with wrath, his eyes were ablaze. There was no clearness or sanityin them—nothing but the terrific rage of a madman. It was the wolf inhim that I saw, and a mad wolf at that.

He sprang for me with a half-roar, gripping my arm. I had steeled myselfto brazen it out, though I was trembling inwardly; but the enormousstrength of the man was too much for my fortitude. He had gripped me bythe biceps with his single hand, and when that grip tightened I wiltedand shrieked aloud. My feet went out from under me. I simply could notstand upright and endure the agony. The muscles refused their duty. Thepain was too great. My biceps was being crushed to a pulp.

He seemed to recover himself, for a lucid gleam came into his eyes, andhe relaxed his hold with a short laugh that was more like a growl. Ifell to the floor, feeling very faint, while he sat down, lighted acigar, and watched me as a cat watches a mouse. As I writhed about Icould see in his eyes that curiosity I had so often noted, that wonderand perplexity, that questing, that everlasting query of his as to whatit was all about.

I finally crawled to my feet and ascended the companion stairs. Fairweather was over, and there was nothing left but to return to the galley.My left arm was numb, as though paralysed, and days passed before I coulduse it, while weeks went by before the last stiffness and pain went outof it. And he had done nothing but put his hand upon my arm and squeeze.There had been no wrenching or jerking. He had just closed his hand witha steady pressure. What he might have done I did not fully realize tillnext day, when he put his head into the galley, and, as a sign of renewedfriendliness, asked me how my arm was getting on.

“It might have been worse,” he smiled.

I was peeling potatoes. He picked one up from the pan. It wasfair-sized, firm, and unpeeled. He closed his hand upon it, squeezed,and the potato squirted out between his fingers in mushy streams. Thepulpy remnant he dropped back into the pan and turned away, and I had asharp vision of how it might have fared with me had the monster put hisreal strength upon me.

But the three days’ rest was good in spite of it all, for it had given myknee the very chance it needed. It felt much better, the swelling hadmaterially decreased, and the cap seemed descending into its properplace. Also, the three days’ rest brought the trouble I had foreseen.It was plainly Thomas Mugridge’s intention to make me pay for those threedays. He treated me vilely, cursed me continually, and heaped his ownwork upon me. He even ventured to raise his fist to me, but I wasbecoming animal-like myself, and I snarled in his face so terribly thatit must have frightened him back. It is no pleasant picture I canconjure up of myself, Humphrey Van Weyden, in that noisome ship’s galley,crouched in a corner over my task, my face raised to the face of thecreature about to strike me, my lips lifted and snarling like a dog’s, myeyes gleaming with fear and helplessness and the courage that comes offear and helplessness. I do not like the picture. It reminds me toostrongly of a rat in a trap. I do not care to think of it; but it waselective, for the threatened blow did not descend.

Thomas Mugridge backed away, glaring as hatefully and viciously as Iglared. A pair of beasts is what we were, penned together and showingour teeth. He was a coward, afraid to strike me because I had notquailed sufficiently in advance; so he chose a new way to intimidate me.There was only one galley knife that, as a knife, amounted to anything.This, through many years of service and wear, had acquired a long, leanblade. It was unusually cruel-looking, and at first I had shudderedevery time I used it. The cook borrowed a stone from Johansen andproceeded to sharpen the knife. He did it with great ostentation,glancing significantly at me the while. He whetted it up and down allday long. Every odd moment he could find he had the knife and stone outand was whetting away. The steel acquired a razor edge. He tried itwith the ball of his thumb or across the nail. He shaved hairs from theback of his hand, glanced along the edge with microscopic acuteness, andfound, or feigned that he found, always, a slight inequality in its edgesomewhere. Then he would put it on the stone again and whet, whet, whet,till I could have laughed aloud, it was so very ludicrous.

It was also serious, for I learned that he was capable of using it, thatunder all his cowardice there was a courage of cowardice, like mine, thatwould impel him to do the very thing his whole nature protested againstdoing and was afraid of doing. “Cooky’s sharpening his knife for Hump,”was being whispered about among the sailors, and some of them twitted himabout it. This he took in good part, and was really pleased, nodding hishead with direful foreknowledge and mystery, until George Leach, theerstwhile cabin-boy, ventured some rough pleasantry on the subject.

Now it happened that Leach was one of the sailors told off to douseMugridge after his game of cards with the captain. Leach had evidentlydone his task with a thoroughness that Mugridge had not forgiven, forwords followed and evil names involving smirched ancestries. Mugridgemenaced with the knife he was sharpening for me. Leach laughed andhurled more of his Telegraph Hill Billingsgate, and before either he or Iknew what had happened, his right arm had been ripped open from elbow towrist by a quick slash of the knife. The cook backed away, a fiendishexpression on his face, the knife held before him in a position ofdefence. But Leach took it quite calmly, though blood was spouting uponthe deck as generously as water from a fountain.

“I’m goin’ to get you, Cooky,” he said, “and I’ll get you hard. And Iwon’t be in no hurry about it. You’ll be without that knife when I comefor you.”

So saying, he turned and walked quietly forward. Mugridge’s face waslivid with fear at what he had done and at what he might expect sooner orlater from the man he had stabbed. But his demeanour toward me was moreferocious than ever. In spite of his fear at the reckoning he mustexpect to pay for what he had done, he could see that it had been anobject-lesson to me, and he became more domineering and exultant. Alsothere was a lust in him, akin to madness, which had come with sight ofthe blood he had drawn. He was beginning to see red in whateverdirection he looked. The psychology of it is sadly tangled, and yet Icould read the workings of his mind as clearly as though it were aprinted book.

Several days went by, the _Ghost_ still foaming down the trades, and Icould swear I saw madness growing in Thomas Mugridge’s eyes. And Iconfess that I became afraid, very much afraid. Whet, whet, whet, itwent all day long. The look in his eyes as he felt the keen edge andglared at me was positively carnivorous. I was afraid to turn myshoulder to him, and when I left the galley I went out backwards—to theamusement of the sailors and hunters, who made a point of gathering ingroups to witness my exit. The strain was too great. I sometimesthought my mind would give way under it—a meet thing on this ship ofmadmen and brutes. Every hour, every minute of my existence was injeopardy. I was a human soul in distress, and yet no soul, fore or aft,betrayed sufficient sympathy to come to my aid. At times I thought ofthrowing myself on the mercy of Wolf Larsen, but the vision of themocking devil in his eyes that questioned life and sneered at it wouldcome strong upon me and compel me to refrain. At other times I seriouslycontemplated suicide, and the whole force of my hopeful philosophy wasrequired to keep me from going over the side in the darkness of night.

Several times Wolf Larsen tried to inveigle me into discussion, but Igave him short answers and eluded him. Finally, he commanded me toresume my seat at the cabin table for a time and let the cook do my work.Then I spoke frankly, telling him what I was enduring from ThomasMugridge because of the three days of favouritism which had been shownme. Wolf Larsen regarded me with smiling eyes.

“So you’re afraid, eh?” he sneered.

“Yes,” I said defiantly and honestly, “I am afraid.”

“That’s the way with you fellows,” he cried, half angrily,“sentimentalizing about your immortal souls and afraid to die. At sightof a sharp knife and a cowardly Cockney the clinging of life to lifeovercomes all your fond foolishness. Why, my dear fellow, you will livefor ever. You are a god, and God cannot be killed. Cooky cannot hurtyou. You are sure of your resurrection. What’s there to be afraid of?

“You have eternal life before you. You are a millionaire in immortality,and a millionaire whose fortune cannot be lost, whose fortune is lessperishable than the stars and as lasting as space or time. It isimpossible for you to diminish your principal. Immortality is a thingwithout beginning or end. Eternity is eternity, and though you die hereand now you will go on living somewhere else and hereafter. And it isall very beautiful, this shaking off of the flesh and soaring of theimprisoned spirit. Cooky cannot hurt you. He can only give you a booston the path you eternally must tread.

“Or, if you do not wish to be boosted just yet, why not boost Cooky?According to your ideas, he, too, must be an immortal millionaire. Youcannot bankrupt him. His paper will always circulate at par. You cannotdiminish the length of his living by killing him, for he is withoutbeginning or end. He’s bound to go on living, somewhere, somehow. Thenboost him. Stick a knife in him and let his spirit free. As it is, it’sin a nasty prison, and you’ll do him only a kindness by breaking down thedoor. And who knows?—it may be a very beautiful spirit that will gosoaring up into the blue from that ugly carcass. Boost him along, andI’ll promote you to his place, and he’s getting forty-five dollars amonth.”

It was plain that I could look for no help or mercy from Wolf Larsen.Whatever was to be done I must do for myself; and out of the courage offear I evolved the plan of fighting Thomas Mugridge with his own weapons.I borrowed a whetstone from Johansen. Louis, the boat-steerer, hadalready begged me for condensed milk and sugar. The lazarette, wheresuch delicacies were stored, was situated beneath the cabin floor.Watching my chance, I stole five cans of the milk, and that night, whenit was Louis’s watch on deck, I traded them with him for a dirk as leanand cruel-looking as Thomas Mugridge’s vegetable knife. It was rusty anddull, but I turned the grindstone while Louis gave it an edge. I sleptmore soundly than usual that night.

Next morning, after breakfast, Thomas Mugridge began his whet, whet,whet. I glanced warily at him, for I was on my knees taking the ashesfrom the stove. When I returned from throwing them overside, he wastalking to Harrison, whose honest yokel’s face was filled withfascination and wonder.

“Yes,” Mugridge was saying, “an’ wot does ’is worship do but give me twoyears in Reading. But blimey if I cared. The other mug was fixedplenty. Should ’a seen ’im. Knife just like this. I stuck it in, likeinto soft butter, an’ the w’y ’e squealed was better’n a tu-penny gaff.”He shot a glance in my direction to see if I was taking it in, and wenton. “‘I didn’t mean it Tommy,’ ’e was snifflin’; ‘so ’elp me Gawd, Ididn’t mean it!’ ‘I’ll fix yer bloody well right,’ I sez, an’ kept rightafter ’im. I cut ’im in ribbons, that’s wot I did, an’ ’e a-squealin’all the time. Once ’e got ’is ’and on the knife an’ tried to ’old it.‘Ad ’is fingers around it, but I pulled it through, cuttin’ to the bone.O, ’e was a sight, I can tell yer.”

A call from the mate interrupted the gory narrative, and Harrison wentaft. Mugridge sat down on the raised threshold to the galley and went onwith his knife-sharpening. I put the shovel away and calmly sat down onthe coal-box facing him. He favoured me with a vicious stare. Stillcalmly, though my heart was going pitapat, I pulled out Louis’s dirk andbegan to whet it on the stone. I had looked for almost any sort ofexplosion on the Cockney’s part, but to my surprise he did not appearaware of what I was doing. He went on whetting his knife. So did I.And for two hours we sat there, face to face, whet, whet, whet, till thenews of it spread abroad and half the ship’s company was crowding thegalley doors to see the sight.

Encouragement and advice were freely tendered, and Jock Horner, thequiet, self-spoken hunter who looked as though he would not harm a mouse,advised me to leave the ribs alone and to thrust upward for the abdomen,at the same time giving what he called the “Spanish twist” to the blade.Leach, his bandaged arm prominently to the fore, begged me to leave a fewremnants of the cook for him; and Wolf Larsen paused once or twice at thebreak of the poop to glance curiously at what must have been to him astirring and crawling of the yeasty thing he knew as life.

And I make free to say that for the time being life assumed the samesordid values to me. There was nothing pretty about it, nothingdivine—only two cowardly moving things that sat whetting steel uponstone, and a group of other moving things, cowardly and otherwise, thatlooked on. Half of them, I am sure, were anxious to see us shedding eachother’s blood. It would have been entertainment. And I do not thinkthere was one who would have interfered had we closed in adeath-struggle.

On the other hand, the whole thing was laughable and childish. Whet,whet, whet,—Humphrey Van Weyden sharpening his knife in a ship’s galleyand trying its edge with his thumb! Of all situations this was the mostinconceivable. I know that my own kind could not have believed itpossible. I had not been called “Sissy” Van Weyden all my days withoutreason, and that “Sissy” Van Weyden should be capable of doing this thingwas a revelation to Humphrey Van Weyden, who knew not whether to beexultant or ashamed.

But nothing happened. At the end of two hours Thomas Mugridge put awayknife and stone and held out his hand.

“Wot’s the good of mykin’ a ’oly show of ourselves for them mugs?” hedemanded. “They don’t love us, an’ bloody well glad they’d be a-seein’us cuttin’ our throats. Yer not ’arf bad, ’Ump! You’ve got spunk, asyou Yanks s’y, an’ I like yer in a w’y. So come on an’ shyke.”

Coward that I might be, I was less a coward than he. It was a distinctvictory I had gained, and I refused to forego any of it by shaking hisdetestable hand.

“All right,” he said pridelessly, “tyke it or leave it, I’ll like yernone the less for it.” And to save his face he turned fiercely upon theonlookers. “Get outa my galley-doors, you bloomin’ swabs!”

This command was reinforced by a steaming kettle of water, and at sightof it the sailors scrambled out of the way. This was a sort of victoryfor Thomas Mugridge, and enabled him to accept more gracefully the defeatI had given him, though, of course, he was too discreet to attempt todrive the hunters away.

“I see Cooky’s finish,” I heard Smoke say to Horner.

“You bet,” was the reply. “Hump runs the galley from now on, and Cookypulls in his horns.”

Mugridge heard and shot a swift glance at me, but I gave no sign that theconversation had reached me. I had not thought my victory was sofar-reaching and complete, but I resolved to let go nothing I had gained.As the days went by, Smoke’s prophecy was verified. The Cockney becamemore humble and slavish to me than even to Wolf Larsen. I mistered himand sirred him no longer, washed no more greasy pots, and peeled no morepotatoes. I did my own work, and my own work only, and when and in whatfashion I saw fit. Also I carried the dirk in a sheath at my hip,sailor-fashion, and maintained toward Thomas Mugridge a constant attitudewhich was composed of equal parts of domineering, insult, and contempt.