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Updated: May 10, 2025
Peters seems likely to be a rather trying man to work for." Ashe's face cleared. For a moment he had almost suspected that she had guessed his errand. "Yes. I imagine he will be. He is what you might call quick-tempered. He has dyspepsia, you know." "I know." "What he wants is plenty of fresh air and no cigars, and a regular course of those Larsen Exercises that amused you so much." Joan laughed.
In the exuberance of his spirit he ran round and round the yard barking into the faces of his friends. Larsen let him out of the yard, mounted his horse, and commanded him to heel. He obeyed with wagging tail. A mile or two down the road Larsen turned into the fields. Across his saddle was something the young pointer had had no experience with a gun.
"And he has never philosophized on life," I added. "No," Wolf Larsen answered, with an indescribable air of sadness. "And he is all the happier for leaving life alone. He is too busy living it to think about it. My mistake was in ever opening the books."
I was "Mr. Van Weyden" fore and aft, and it was only unofficially that Wolf Larsen himself ever addressed me as "Hump." It was amusing. Perhaps the wind would haul a few points while we were at dinner, and as I left the table he would say, "Mr. Van Weyden, will you kindly put about on the port tack." And I would go on deck, beckon Louis to me, and learn from him what was to be done.
"Look me over careful, lady. Today's most likely the last time you'll see me," declared Riley, gazing straight into her eyes. A hand touched his arm. "Stranger, no rough play!" Riley Sinclair whirled with whiplash suddenness and, chopping the edge of his hand downward, struck away the arm of Larsen, paralyzing the nerves with the same blow. "Hands off!" said Sinclair.
I had come up on deck for a breath of fresh air and to try to get some repose for my overwrought nerves. Wolf Larsen was smoking a cigar and examining the patent log which the Ghost usually towed astern, but which had been hauled in for some purpose. Suddenly Leach's voice came to my ears. It was tense and hoarse with an overmastering rage.
"Get the cards, Hump," Wolf Larsen ordered, as they took seats at the table. "And bring out the cigars and the whisky you'll find in my berth."
I did not attempt to shout, but communicated the news to Wolf Larsen by waving my arm. He changed the course, and I signalled affirmation when the speck showed dead ahead. It grew larger, and so swiftly that for the first time I fully appreciated the speed of our flight. Wolf Larsen motioned for me to come down, and when I stood beside him at the wheel gave me instructions for heaving to.
But I've said nothin' to ye, mind ye. I've whispered never a word; for old fat Louis'll live the voyage out if the last mother's son of yez go to the fishes." "Wolf Larsen!" he snorted a moment later. "Listen to the word, will ye! Wolf 'tis what he is. He's not black-hearted like some men. 'Tis no heart he has at all. Wolf, just wolf, 'tis what he is. D'ye wonder he's well named?"
Larsen wanted to light a fresh cigar, and offered one to each of his friends: then it was found they had no matches, and one of them, who had been drinking a little and felt jovial, turned to the dark stranger and asked him for a light, and the man, without speaking, handed out a little silver match-box. It was just then that the conductor came along, and Larsen saw his ticket.
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