The Sea Wolf | Page 8

straightened out his legs, and stiffened in one great tense effort,
and rolled his head from side to side. Then the muscles relaxed, the
head stopped rolling, and a sigh, as of profound relief, floated upward

from his lips. The jaw dropped, the upper lip lifted, and two rows of
tobacco-discoloured teeth appeared. It seemed as though his features
had frozen into a diabolical grin at the world he had left and outwitted.
Then a most surprising thing occurred. The captain broke loose upon
the dead man like a thunderclap. Oaths rolled from his lips in a
continuous stream. And they were not namby-pamby oaths, or mere
expressions of indecency. Each word was a blasphemy, and there were
many words. They crisped and crackled like electric sparks. I had never
heard anything like it in my life, nor could I have conceived it possible.
With a turn for literary expression myself, and a penchant for forcible
figures and phrases, I appreciated, as no other listener, I dare say, the
peculiar vividness and strength and absolute blasphemy of his
metaphors. The cause of it all, as near as I could make out, was that the
man, who was mate, had gone on a debauch before leaving San
Francisco, and then had the poor taste to die at the beginning of the
voyage and leave Wolf Larsen short-handed.
It should be unnecessary to state, at least to my friends, that I was
shocked. Oaths and vile language of any sort had always been repellent
to me. I felt a wilting sensation, a sinking at the heart, and, I might just
as well say, a giddiness. To me, death had always been invested with
solemnity and dignity. It had been peaceful in its occurrence, sacred in
its ceremonial. But death in its more sordid and terrible aspects was a
thing with which I had been unacquainted till now. As I say, while I
appreciated the power of the terrific denunciation that swept out of
Wolf Larsen's mouth, I was inexpressibly shocked. The scorching
torrent was enough to wither the face of the corpse. I should not have
been surprised if the wet black beard had frizzled and curled and flared
up in smoke and flame. But the dead man was unconcerned. He
continued to grin with a sardonic humour, with a cynical mockery and
defiance. He was master of the situation.
CHAPTER III

Wolf Larsen ceased swearing as suddenly as he had begun. He

relighted his cigar and glanced around. His eyes chanced upon the
cook.
"Well, Cooky?" he began, with a suaveness that was cold and of the
temper of steel.
"Yes, sir," the cook eagerly interpolated, with appeasing and apologetic
servility.
"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 you
too. You must be very, very careful of your health, Cooky.
Understand?"
His last word, in striking contrast with the smoothness of his previous
utterance, snapped like the lash of a whip. The cook quailed under it.
"Yes, sir," was the meek reply, as the offending head disappeared into
the galley.
At this sweeping rebuke, which the cook had only pointed, the rest of
the crew became uninterested and fell to work at one task or another. A
number of men, however, who were lounging about a companion-way
between the galley and hatch, and who did not seem to be sailors,
continued talking in low tones with one another. These, I afterward
learned, were the hunters, the men who shot the seals, and a very
superior breed to common 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 old canvas 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 a
call 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
next demand, this time of the hunters lounging about the companion-
way.
They shook their heads, and some one made a jocular remark which I
did not catch, but which raised a general laugh.
Wolf Larsen made the same demand of the sailors. Bibles and
Prayer-books seemed scarce articles, but one of the men volunteered to
pursue the quest amongst the watch below, returning in a minute with
the information that there was none.
The captain shrugged his shoulders. "Then we'll drop him over without
any palavering, unless our clerical-looking castaway has the burial
service at sea by heart."
By this time he