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Chapter two of The Sea Wolf. This LibriVox recording is
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in the public domain. The Sea Wolf by Jack London,
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Chapter two. I seemed swinging in a mighty rhythm through
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orbit vastness. Sparkling points of light sputtered and shot past me.
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They were stars, I knew in flaring comets that peopled
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my flight among the suns. As I reached the limit
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of my swing and prepared to rush back on the
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counter swing, a great gong struck and thundered for an
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immeasurable period, lapped in the rippling of placid centuries. I
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enjoyed and pondered my tremendous flight. But a change came
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over the face of the dream. For a dream, I
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told myself it must be. My rhythm grew shorter and shorter.
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I was jerked from swing to counter swing with irritating haste.
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I could scarcely catch my breath. So fiercely as I
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impelled through the heavens, the gong I undered more frequently
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and more furiously. I grew to await it with a
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nameless dread. Then it seemed as though I were being
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dragged over rasping sands, white and hot in the sun
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This gave place to a sense of intolerable anguish. My
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skin was scorching in the torment of fire. The gong
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clanged and knell. The sparkling points of light flashed past
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me in an interminable stream, as though the whole sidereal
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system were dropping into the void. I gasped, caught my
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breath painfully, and opened my eyes. Two men were kneeling
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beside me, working over me. My mighty rhythm was the
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lift and forward plunge of a ship on the sea.
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The terrific gong was a frying pan hanging on the
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wall that rattled and clattered with each leak by the ship.
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The rasping, scorching sands were man's hard hands chafing my
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naked chest. I squirmed under the pain of it and
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half lifted my head. My chest was raw and red,
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and I could see tiny blood globules starting through the
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torn and inflamed cuticle. That'll do Jonsen, one of the
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men said, can't you see you've bloomin well rubbed all
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his gent skin orf The man addressed as Johnson, a
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man of heavy skin and Avian type, ceased chafing me
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and rose awkwardly to his feet. The man who had
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spoken to him was clearly a cockney, with the clean
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lines and weakly pretty, almost infeminine face of a man
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who has absorbed the sound of the bow bells with
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his mother's milk, a dragon old muslin cap on his head,
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and a dirty guinysack about his slim hips. Proclaimed him
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cook of the decidedly dirty ship's galley in which I
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found myself. And how you're feelin now, sir? He asked,
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with a subservient smirk which comes on of generations of
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seeking ancestors. For reply, I twisted weakly into a sitting
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posture and was helped by Jansen to my feet. The
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rattle and bang of the frying pan was grating horribly
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on my nerves. I could not collect my thoughts, clutching
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the woodwork of the galley for support, and I confessed
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the grease with which it was come to put my
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teeth on edge. I reached across a hot cooking range
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to the offending utensil, unhooked it, and wedged it securely
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into the coal box. The cook grinned at my exhibition
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of nerves and thrust into my hand a steaming mug
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with an ear. This will do your good. It was
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a nauseous mess ship's coffee, but the heat of it
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was revivifying. Between gulps of the molten stuff. I glanced
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down at my raw and bleeding chest and turned to
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the Scandinavian. Thank you, mister Johnson, I said, But don't
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you think your measures were rather heroic? It was because
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he understood the reproof of my action, rather than of
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my words, that he held his palm up for inspection.
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It was remarkably calloused. I passed my hand over the
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horny projections, and my teeth went on edge once more
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from the horrible rasping sensation produced. My name is Johnson
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nut Jansen, he said, in very good, though slow English,
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with no more than a shade of accent to it.
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There was mild protest in his pale blue eyes, and
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withal the frankness and manliness that quite won me to him.
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Thank you, mister Johnson, I corrected, and reached out my
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hand for his. He hesitated, awkward and bashful, shifted his
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weight from one leg to the other, then blunderingly gripped
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my hand in a hearty shake. Have you any dry
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clothes I may put on? I asked the cook. Yes, sir,
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he answered with cheerful alacrity, I'll run down and tack
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a look over my kit if you've no objection, sir,
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to wearing my things. He dived out the galley door,
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or glided rather, with the swiftness and smoothness of gait
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that struck me as being not so much catlike as oily.
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In fact, this oiliness or greasiness, as I was later
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to learn, was probably the most salient expression of his personality.
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And where am I? I asked Johnson, whom I took
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and rightly to be one of the sailors. What vessel
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is this? And where is she? Bound off the Faro
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Lands heading about southwest? He answered, slowly and methodically, as
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though groping for his best English, and rigidly observing the
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order of my queries. The schooner ghost bound seal hunting
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to Japan. And who is the captain? I must see
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him as soon as I am dressed. Johnson looked puzzled
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and embarrassed. He hesitated while he groped in his vocabulary
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and framed a complete answer. The captain is wolf Larsen,
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or so men call him. I never heard his other name,
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but you better speak soft with him. He is mad
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this morning, the mate, but he did not finish. The
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cook had glided in. Better sling your hook out of ear, Johnson,
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he said, the old man will be wanting here on deck,
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and this ain't no die to fall foul of him.
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Johnson turned obediently to the door, at the same time
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over the cook's shoulder, favoring me with an amazingly solemn
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and portentous wink, as though to emphasize his interrupted remark
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and the need for me to be soft spoken with
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the captain. Hanging over the cook's arm was a loose
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and crumpled the ray of evil looking and sour smelling garments.
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They was put a wie wet sir, he vouchsafed explanation.
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But you'll have to make them do till I dry
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yours out by the fire. Clinging to the woodwork, staggering
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with the roll of the ship, and aided by the cook,
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I managed to slip into a rough, woollen undershirt on
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the instant. My flesh was creeping and crawling from the
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harsh contact. He noticed my involuntary twitching and grimacing, and smirked.
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I only hope you don't ever have to get used
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to such as that in this life, because you've got
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a blooming soft skin that you have more like a
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light ease than any I know of. I was blooming
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well sure you was a gentleman. As soon as I
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set eyes on you. I had taken a dislike to
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him at first, and as he helped me dress, this
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dislike increased. There was something repulsive about his touch. I
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shrank from his hand. My flesh revolts did, and between
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this and the smells arising from the various pots boiling
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and bubbling on the galley fire, I was in haste
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to get out into the fresh air. Further, there was
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the need of seeing the captain about what arrangements could
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be made for getting me ashore. A cheap cotton shirt
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with frayed collar and a bosom discolored with what I
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took to be ancient blood stain was put on me
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amid a running and apologetic fire of comment. A pair
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of workmen's brokens encased my feet, and for trousers, I
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was furnished with a pair of pale blue, washed out overalls,
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one leg of which was fully ten inches shorter than
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the other. The abbreviated leg looked as though the devil
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had clutched there for the cockney soule and missed the
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shadow for the substance. And whom have I to thank
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for this kindness? I asked? When I stood completely arrayed,
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A tiny boy's cap on my head, and for coat,
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a dirty striped cotton jacket which ended at the small
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on my back, and the sleeves of which reached just
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below my elbows. The cook drew himself up in his smugly,
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humble fashion, a depreciating smirk on his face. Out of
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my experience with Stuarts on the Atlantic liners at the
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end of the voyage, I could have sworn he was
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waiting for his tip. From my fuller knowledge of the creature,
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I now know that the posture was unconscious, a hereditary civility,
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no doubt was responsible. Muggridge, sir. He fonnd his effeminate
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features running into a greasy smile. Thomas, Muggridge, sir, And
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at your service, all right, Thomas, I said, I shall
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not forget you when my clothes are dry. The soft
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light suffused his face, and his eyes glistened, as though
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somewhere in the depths of his being. His ancestors had
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quickened and stirred with dim memories of tips received in
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former lives. Thank you, sir, he said, very gratefully and
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very humbly. Indeed, precisely in the way that the door
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slid back. He slid aside, and I stepped out on deck.
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I was still weak from my prolonged immersion. A puff
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of wind caught me, and I staggered across the moving
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deck to a corner of the cabin, to which I
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clung for support. The schooner, heeled over far out from
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the perpendicular, was bowing and plunging into the long Pacific roll.
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If she were heading southwest as Johnson had said, the wind,
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then I calculated, was blowing nearly from the south. The
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fog was gone, and in its place the sun sparkled
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crisply on the surface of the water. I turned to
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the east, where I knew California must lie, but could
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see nothing save low lying fog banks, the same fog, doubtless,
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that had brought about the disaster to the Martinez and
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placed me in my present situation. To the north, not
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far away, a group of naked rocks thrust above the sea,
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on one of which I could distinguish a lighthouse. In
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the southwest, and almost in our course, I saw the
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primidal loom of some vessel sails. Having completed my survey
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of the horizon, I turned to my more immediate surroundings.
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My first thought was that a man who had come
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through a collision and rubbed shoulders with death maundered more
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attention than I received. Beyond the sailor at the wheel,
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who stared curiously across the top of the cabin, I
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attracted no notice whatsoever. Everybody seemed interested in what was
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going on. Amidships. There on a hatch, a large man
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was lying on his back. He was fully clothed, though
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his shirt was ripped open in front. Nothing was to
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be seen of his chest, however, for it was covered
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with a mass of black hair, an appearance like the
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furry coat of a dog. His head his neck were
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hidden beneath a black beard in her shot with gray
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which would have been stiff and bushy had it not
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been limp and draggled and dripping with water. His eyes
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were closed, and he was apparently unconscious, but his mouth
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was wide open, his breast heaving as though from suffocation.
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As he labored noisily for breath. A sailor, from time
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to time, and quite methodically, as a matter of routine,
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dropped a canvas bucket into the ocean at the end
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of a rope, halted in hand under hand, and sluiced
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its contents over the prostrate man, pacing back and forth
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the length of the hatchways and savagely chewing the end
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of his cigar. Was the man whose casual glance had
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rescued me from the sea. His height was probably five
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foot ten inches or ten and a half. But my
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first impression or feel of the man was not of this,
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but of his strength. And yet while he was of
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massive with broad shoulders and deep chest, I could not
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characterize his strength as massive. It was what might be
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termed a sinewy, knotty strength, of the kind that we
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ascribed to lean and wiry men, but which in him,
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because of his heavy build, partook more of the enlarged
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guerrilla order. Not that in appearance he seemed the least
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gorilla alike. What I am striving to express is the
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strength itself, more as a thane. Apart from his physical semblance,
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it was a strength we are one to associate with
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things primitive, with wild animals and the creatures. We imagine
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our tree dwelling prototypes to have been a strength, savage, ferocious,
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alive in itself, the essence of life, in that it
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is the potency of motion, the elemental stuff itself out
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of which the many forms of life have been molded.
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In short, that which writhes in the body of a
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snake when the head is cut off and the snake
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as a snake is dead, or which lingers in the
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shapeless lump of turtle meat, and recoils and quivers from
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the proud of a finger. Such was the impression of
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strength I gathered from this man, who paced up and down.
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He was firmly planted on his legs. His feet struck
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the deck squarely and with surety. Every movement of a muscle,
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from the heave of the shoulders to the tightening of
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the lips about the cigar, was decisive and seemed to
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come out of a strength that was excessive and overwhelming.
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In fact, though this strength pervaded every action of his,
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it seemed but the advertisement of a greater strength that
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lurked within that lay dormant and no more than stirred
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from time to time, but which might arouse at any
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moment terrible and compelling, like the rage of a lion
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or the wrath of a storm. The cook stuck his
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head out of the gally door and grinned encouragingly, at
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at the same time jerking his thumb in the direction
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of the man who paced up and down by the hatchway.
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Thus I was given to understand that he was the Captain,
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the old man, and the cook's binacular, the individual whom
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I must interview and put to the trouble of somehow
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getting me ashore. I had half started forward to get
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over with what I was certain would be a stormy
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five minutes when a more violent, suffocating proxysm seized the
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unfortunate person who was lying on his back. He wrenched
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and writhed about convulsively. The chin with a damp black
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beard pointed higher in the air as the back muscle
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stiffened and the chest swelled in an unconscious and instinctive
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effort to get more air. Under the whiskers, and all unseen,
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I knew that the skin was taking on a purplish hue.
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The captain or wolf Larsen, has men called him, ceased
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pacing and gazed down at the dying man. So fierce
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had this final struggle become that the sailor paused in
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the act of flinging more water over him, and stared curiously,
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the canvas bucket partly tilted and dripping its contents to
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the deck. The dying man beat a tattoo on the
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hatch with his heels, straightened out his legs and stiffened
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in one great tense effort, and rolled his head from
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side to side. Then the muscles relaxed and the head
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stopped rolling, and a sigh as of profound relief, floated
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upward from his lips. The jaw dropped, the upper lifted,
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and two rows of tobacco discolored teeth appeared. It seemed
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as though his features had frozen into a diabolical grin
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at the world he had left and outwitted. Then a
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most surprising thing occurred. The captain broke loose upon the
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dead man like a thunderclap. Oths rolled from his lips
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in a continuous stream, and they were not namby pambios
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or mere expressions of indecency. Each word was a blasphemy,
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and there were many words they crisped and crackled like
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electric sparks. I had never heard anything like it in
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my life, nor could I have conceived it possible. With
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a turn for literary expression myself and a penchant for
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forcible figures and phrases I appreciated as no other listener,
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I dare say the particular vividness and strength and absolute
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blasphemy of his metaphors. The cause of it, all, as
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ner as I could make out, was that the man
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who was mate had yawned on a debauch before leaving
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San Francisco, and then had the poor taste to die
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at the beginning of the voyage and leave Wolf Larsen shorthanded.
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It should be unnecessary to state, at least to my friends,
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that I was shocked. Ohs and viol Angthanguage of any
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sort had always been repelling to me. I felt a
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wilting sensation, a sinking at the heart, and I might
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just as well say a giddiness. To me, death had
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always been invested with solemnity and dignity. It had been
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peaceful in its occurrence, sacred in its ceremonial But death
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in its more sordid and terrible aspects was a thing
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with which I had been unacquainted till now. As I say,
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while I appreciated the power of the terrific denunciation that
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swept out of Wolf Larsen's mouth, I was inexpressibly shocked.
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The scorching torrent was enough to wither the face of
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the corpse. I should not have been surprised if the
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wet dark beard had frizzled and curled and flared up
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in smoke and flame. But the dead man was unconcerned.
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He continued to grin with a sardonic humor, with a
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cynical mockery and defiance as master of the situation. End
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of Chapter two
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Chapter two of The Sea Wolf. This LibriVox recording is
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in the public domain. The Sea Wolf by Jack London,
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Chapter two. I seemed swinging in a mighty rhythm through
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orbit vastness. Sparkling points of light sputtered and shot past me.
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They were stars, I knew in flaring comets that peopled
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my flight among the suns. As I reached the limit
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of my swing and prepared to rush back on the
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counter swing, a great gong struck and thundered for an
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immeasurable period, lapped in the rippling of placid centuries. I
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enjoyed and pondered my tremendous flight. But a change came
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over the face of the dream. For a dream, I
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told myself it must be. My rhythm grew shorter and shorter.
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I was jerked from swing to counter swing with irritating haste.
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I could scarcely catch my breath. So fiercely as I
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impelled through the heavens, the gong I undered more frequently
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and more furiously. I grew to await it with a
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nameless dread. Then it seemed as though I were being
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dragged over rasping sands, white and hot in the sun
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This gave place to a sense of intolerable anguish. My
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skin was scorching in the torment of fire. The gong
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clanged and knell. The sparkling points of light flashed past
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me in an interminable stream, as though the whole sidereal
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system were dropping into the void. I gasped, caught my
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breath painfully, and opened my eyes. Two men were kneeling
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beside me, working over me. My mighty rhythm was the
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lift and forward plunge of a ship on the sea.
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The terrific gong was a frying pan hanging on the
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wall that rattled and clattered with each leak by the ship.
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The rasping, scorching sands were man's hard hands chafing my
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naked chest. I squirmed under the pain of it and
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half lifted my head. My chest was raw and red,
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and I could see tiny blood globules starting through the
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torn and inflamed cuticle. That'll do Jonsen, one of the
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men said, can't you see you've bloomin well rubbed all
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his gent skin orf The man addressed as Johnson, a
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man of heavy skin and Avian type, ceased chafing me
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and rose awkwardly to his feet. The man who had
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spoken to him was clearly a cockney, with the clean
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lines and weakly pretty, almost infeminine face of a man
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who has absorbed the sound of the bow bells with
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his mother's milk, a dragon old muslin cap on his head,
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and a dirty guinysack about his slim hips. Proclaimed him
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cook of the decidedly dirty ship's galley in which I
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found myself. And how you're feelin now, sir? He asked,
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with a subservient smirk which comes on of generations of
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seeking ancestors. For reply, I twisted weakly into a sitting
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posture and was helped by Jansen to my feet. The
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rattle and bang of the frying pan was grating horribly
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on my nerves. I could not collect my thoughts, clutching
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the woodwork of the galley for support, and I confessed
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the grease with which it was come to put my
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teeth on edge. I reached across a hot cooking range
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to the offending utensil, unhooked it, and wedged it securely
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into the coal box. The cook grinned at my exhibition
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of nerves and thrust into my hand a steaming mug
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with an ear. This will do your good. It was
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a nauseous mess ship's coffee, but the heat of it
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was revivifying. Between gulps of the molten stuff. I glanced
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down at my raw and bleeding chest and turned to
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the Scandinavian. Thank you, mister Johnson, I said, But don't
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you think your measures were rather heroic? It was because
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he understood the reproof of my action, rather than of
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my words, that he held his palm up for inspection.
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It was remarkably calloused. I passed my hand over the
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horny projections, and my teeth went on edge once more
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from the horrible rasping sensation produced. My name is Johnson
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nut Jansen, he said, in very good, though slow English,
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with no more than a shade of accent to it.
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There was mild protest in his pale blue eyes, and
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withal the frankness and manliness that quite won me to him.
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Thank you, mister Johnson, I corrected, and reached out my
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hand for his. He hesitated, awkward and bashful, shifted his
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weight from one leg to the other, then blunderingly gripped
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my hand in a hearty shake. Have you any dry
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clothes I may put on? I asked the cook. Yes, sir,
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he answered with cheerful alacrity, I'll run down and tack
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a look over my kit if you've no objection, sir,
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to wearing my things. He dived out the galley door,
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or glided rather, with the swiftness and smoothness of gait
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that struck me as being not so much catlike as oily.
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In fact, this oiliness or greasiness, as I was later
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to learn, was probably the most salient expression of his personality.
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And where am I? I asked Johnson, whom I took
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and rightly to be one of the sailors. What vessel
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is this? And where is she? Bound off the Faro
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Lands heading about southwest? He answered, slowly and methodically, as
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though groping for his best English, and rigidly observing the
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order of my queries. The schooner ghost bound seal hunting
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to Japan. And who is the captain? I must see
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him as soon as I am dressed. Johnson looked puzzled
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and embarrassed. He hesitated while he groped in his vocabulary
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and framed a complete answer. The captain is wolf Larsen,
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or so men call him. I never heard his other name,
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but you better speak soft with him. He is mad
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this morning, the mate, but he did not finish. The
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cook had glided in. Better sling your hook out of ear, Johnson,
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he said, the old man will be wanting here on deck,
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and this ain't no die to fall foul of him.
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Johnson turned obediently to the door, at the same time
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over the cook's shoulder, favoring me with an amazingly solemn
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and portentous wink, as though to emphasize his interrupted remark
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and the need for me to be soft spoken with
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the captain. Hanging over the cook's arm was a loose
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and crumpled the ray of evil looking and sour smelling garments.
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They was put a wie wet sir, he vouchsafed explanation.
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But you'll have to make them do till I dry
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yours out by the fire. Clinging to the woodwork, staggering
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with the roll of the ship, and aided by the cook,
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I managed to slip into a rough, woollen undershirt on
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the instant. My flesh was creeping and crawling from the
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harsh contact. He noticed my involuntary twitching and grimacing, and smirked.
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I only hope you don't ever have to get used
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to such as that in this life, because you've got
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a blooming soft skin that you have more like a
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light ease than any I know of. I was blooming
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well sure you was a gentleman. As soon as I
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set eyes on you. I had taken a dislike to
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him at first, and as he helped me dress, this
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dislike increased. There was something repulsive about his touch. I
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shrank from his hand. My flesh revolts did, and between
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this and the smells arising from the various pots boiling
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and bubbling on the galley fire, I was in haste
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to get out into the fresh air. Further, there was
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the need of seeing the captain about what arrangements could
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be made for getting me ashore. A cheap cotton shirt
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with frayed collar and a bosom discolored with what I
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took to be ancient blood stain was put on me
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amid a running and apologetic fire of comment. A pair
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of workmen's brokens encased my feet, and for trousers, I
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was furnished with a pair of pale blue, washed out overalls,
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one leg of which was fully ten inches shorter than
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the other. The abbreviated leg looked as though the devil
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had clutched there for the cockney soule and missed the
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shadow for the substance. And whom have I to thank
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for this kindness? I asked? When I stood completely arrayed,
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A tiny boy's cap on my head, and for coat,
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a dirty striped cotton jacket which ended at the small
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on my back, and the sleeves of which reached just
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below my elbows. The cook drew himself up in his smugly,
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humble fashion, a depreciating smirk on his face. Out of
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my experience with Stuarts on the Atlantic liners at the
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end of the voyage, I could have sworn he was
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waiting for his tip. From my fuller knowledge of the creature,
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I now know that the posture was unconscious, a hereditary civility,
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no doubt was responsible. Muggridge, sir. He fonnd his effeminate
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features running into a greasy smile. Thomas, Muggridge, sir, And
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at your service, all right, Thomas, I said, I shall
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not forget you when my clothes are dry. The soft
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light suffused his face, and his eyes glistened, as though
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somewhere in the depths of his being. His ancestors had
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quickened and stirred with dim memories of tips received in
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former lives. Thank you, sir, he said, very gratefully and
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very humbly. Indeed, precisely in the way that the door
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slid back. He slid aside, and I stepped out on deck.
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I was still weak from my prolonged immersion. A puff
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of wind caught me, and I staggered across the moving
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deck to a corner of the cabin, to which I
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clung for support. The schooner, heeled over far out from
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the perpendicular, was bowing and plunging into the long Pacific roll.
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If she were heading southwest as Johnson had said, the wind,
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then I calculated, was blowing nearly from the south. The
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fog was gone, and in its place the sun sparkled
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crisply on the surface of the water. I turned to
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the east, where I knew California must lie, but could
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see nothing save low lying fog banks, the same fog, doubtless,
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that had brought about the disaster to the Martinez and
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placed me in my present situation. To the north, not
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far away, a group of naked rocks thrust above the sea,
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on one of which I could distinguish a lighthouse. In
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the southwest, and almost in our course, I saw the
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primidal loom of some vessel sails. Having completed my survey
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of the horizon, I turned to my more immediate surroundings.
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My first thought was that a man who had come
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through a collision and rubbed shoulders with death maundered more
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attention than I received. Beyond the sailor at the wheel,
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who stared curiously across the top of the cabin, I
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attracted no notice whatsoever. Everybody seemed interested in what was
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going on. Amidships. There on a hatch, a large man
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was lying on his back. He was fully clothed, though
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his shirt was ripped open in front. Nothing was to
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be seen of his chest, however, for it was covered
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with a mass of black hair, an appearance like the
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furry coat of a dog. His head his neck were
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hidden beneath a black beard in her shot with gray
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which would have been stiff and bushy had it not
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been limp and draggled and dripping with water. His eyes
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were closed, and he was apparently unconscious, but his mouth
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was wide open, his breast heaving as though from suffocation.
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As he labored noisily for breath. A sailor, from time
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to time, and quite methodically, as a matter of routine,
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dropped a canvas bucket into the ocean at the end
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of a rope, halted in hand under hand, and sluiced
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its contents over the prostrate man, pacing back and forth
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the length of the hatchways and savagely chewing the end
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of his cigar. Was the man whose casual glance had
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rescued me from the sea. His height was probably five
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foot ten inches or ten and a half. But my
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first impression or feel of the man was not of this,
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but of his strength. And yet while he was of
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massive with broad shoulders and deep chest, I could not
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characterize his strength as massive. It was what might be
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termed a sinewy, knotty strength, of the kind that we
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ascribed to lean and wiry men, but which in him,
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because of his heavy build, partook more of the enlarged
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guerrilla order. Not that in appearance he seemed the least
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gorilla alike. What I am striving to express is the
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strength itself, more as a thane. Apart from his physical semblance,
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it was a strength we are one to associate with
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things primitive, with wild animals and the creatures. We imagine
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our tree dwelling prototypes to have been a strength, savage, ferocious,
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alive in itself, the essence of life, in that it
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is the potency of motion, the elemental stuff itself out
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of which the many forms of life have been molded.
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In short, that which writhes in the body of a
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snake when the head is cut off and the snake
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as a snake is dead, or which lingers in the
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shapeless lump of turtle meat, and recoils and quivers from
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the proud of a finger. Such was the impression of
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strength I gathered from this man, who paced up and down.
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He was firmly planted on his legs. His feet struck
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the deck squarely and with surety. Every movement of a muscle,
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from the heave of the shoulders to the tightening of
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the lips about the cigar, was decisive and seemed to
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come out of a strength that was excessive and overwhelming.
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In fact, though this strength pervaded every action of his,
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it seemed but the advertisement of a greater strength that
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lurked within that lay dormant and no more than stirred
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from time to time, but which might arouse at any
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moment terrible and compelling, like the rage of a lion
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or the wrath of a storm. The cook stuck his
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head out of the gally door and grinned encouragingly, at
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at the same time jerking his thumb in the direction
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of the man who paced up and down by the hatchway.
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Thus I was given to understand that he was the Captain,
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the old man, and the cook's binacular, the individual whom
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I must interview and put to the trouble of somehow
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getting me ashore. I had half started forward to get
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over with what I was certain would be a stormy
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five minutes when a more violent, suffocating proxysm seized the
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unfortunate person who was lying on his back. He wrenched
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and writhed about convulsively. The chin with a damp black
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beard pointed higher in the air as the back muscle
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stiffened and the chest swelled in an unconscious and instinctive
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effort to get more air. Under the whiskers, and all unseen,
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I knew that the skin was taking on a purplish hue.
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The captain or wolf Larsen, has men called him, ceased
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pacing and gazed down at the dying man. So fierce
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had this final struggle become that the sailor paused in
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the act of flinging more water over him, and stared curiously,
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the canvas bucket partly tilted and dripping its contents to
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the deck. The dying man beat a tattoo on the
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hatch with his heels, straightened out his legs and stiffened
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in one great tense effort, and rolled his head from
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side to side. Then the muscles relaxed and the head
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stopped rolling, and a sigh as of profound relief, floated
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upward from his lips. The jaw dropped, the upper lifted,
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and two rows of tobacco discolored teeth appeared. It seemed
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as though his features had frozen into a diabolical grin
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at the world he had left and outwitted. Then a
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most surprising thing occurred. The captain broke loose upon the
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dead man like a thunderclap. Oths rolled from his lips
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in a continuous stream, and they were not namby pambios
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or mere expressions of indecency. Each word was a blasphemy,
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and there were many words they crisped and crackled like
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electric sparks. I had never heard anything like it in
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my life, nor could I have conceived it possible. With
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a turn for literary expression myself and a penchant for
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forcible figures and phrases I appreciated as no other listener,
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I dare say the particular vividness and strength and absolute
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blasphemy of his metaphors. The cause of it, all, as
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ner as I could make out, was that the man
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who was mate had yawned on a debauch before leaving
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San Francisco, and then had the poor taste to die
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at the beginning of the voyage and leave Wolf Larsen shorthanded.
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It should be unnecessary to state, at least to my friends,
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that I was shocked. Ohs and viol Angthanguage of any
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sort had always been repelling to me. I felt a
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wilting sensation, a sinking at the heart, and I might
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just as well say a giddiness. To me, death had
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always been invested with solemnity and dignity. It had been
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peaceful in its occurrence, sacred in its ceremonial But death
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in its more sordid and terrible aspects was a thing
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with which I had been unacquainted till now. As I say,
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while I appreciated the power of the terrific denunciation that
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swept out of Wolf Larsen's mouth, I was inexpressibly shocked.
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The scorching torrent was enough to wither the face of
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the corpse. I should not have been surprised if the
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wet dark beard had frizzled and curled and flared up
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in smoke and flame. But the dead man was unconcerned.
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He continued to grin with a sardonic humor, with a
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cynical mockery and defiance as master of the situation. End
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of Chapter two
