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Leach was the last to go, falling sheer back from the top of the scuttle and striking on head and shoulders upon his sprawling mates beneath. Wolf Larsen and the lantern disappeared, and we were left in darkness. There was a deal of cursing and groaning as the men at the bottom of the ladder crawled to their feet.
"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."
Indian clubs left him still unsatisfied. The thought came to him that it was a long time since he had done his Larsen Exercises. Perhaps they would heal him. The Larsen Exercises, invented by a certain Lieutenant Larsen, of the Swedish Army, have almost every sort of merit. They make a man strong, supple, and slender. But they are not dignified.
His lips were flecked with a soapy froth, and sometimes he choked and gurgled and became inarticulate. And through it all, calm and impassive, leaning on his elbow and gazing down, Wolf Larsen seemed lost in a great curiosity. This wild stirring of yeasty life, this terrific revolt and defiance of matter that moved, perplexed and interested him.
It seemed incredible that the next surge should not crush the Ghost down upon the tiny eggshell. But, at the right moment, I passed the tackle to the Kanaka, while Wolf Larsen did the same thing forward to Kerfoot. Both tackles were hooked in a trice, and the three men, deftly timing the roll, made a simultaneous leap aboard the schooner.
They've rigged up a little sawmill down there, where they're cutting what the farmers haul in to 'em. And then, besides, they've planted a bunch of piles right out in the middle of the stream and boomed in their side, and they're out there with pike-poles, nailin' onto every stick of deadhead that comes along." "Well, that's all right," said Larsen.
"And as for you, Johnson, you'll get so tired of life before I'm through with you that you'll fling yourself over the side. See if you don't." "That's a suggestion," he added, in an aside to me. "I'll bet you a month's pay he acts upon it." I had cherished a hope that his victims would find an opportunity to escape while filling our water-barrels, but Wolf Larsen had selected his spot well.
"I don't think it was worth it," I said to Wolf Larsen, "a broken boat for Kelly's life." "But Kelly didn't amount to much," was the reply. "Good-night." After all that had passed, suffering intolerable anguish in my finger-ends, and with three boats missing, to say nothing of the wild capers the Ghost was cutting, I should have thought it impossible to sleep.
'E's got no right to live, an' as the Good Word puts it, ''E shall shorely die, an' I s'y, 'Amen, an' damn soon at that." When I returned on deck I found Wolf Larsen steering mainly with one hand, while with the other hand he held the marine glasses and studied the situation of the boats, paying particular attention to the position of the Macedonia.
I am compelled to Mister him and to Sir him with every speech. One reason for this is that Wolf Larsen seems to have taken a fancy to him. It is an unprecedented thing, I take it, for a captain to be chummy with the cook; but this is certainly what Wolf Larsen is doing.
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