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At once we moved aboard the Ghost, occupying our old state-rooms and cooking in the galley. The imprisonment of Wolf Larsen had happened most opportunely, for what must have been the Indian summer of this high latitude was gone and drizzling stormy weather had set in.
Thereafter, fore and aft, I was known by no other name, until the term became a part of my thought-processes and I identified it with myself, thought of myself as Hump, as though Hump were I and had always been I. It was no easy task, waiting on the cabin table, where sat Wolf Larsen, Johansen, and the six hunters.
But the space on deck where I had left him lying was vacant. He had evidently gone below. That night we stood alternate watches, one of us sleeping at a time; for there was no telling what Wolf Larsen might do. He was certainly capable of anything. The next day we waited, and the next, and still he made no sign.
But I knew, and his genius and my judgment were vindicated when he made that magnificent hit with his 'Forge." "And it was a newspaper poem," she said glibly. "It did happen to see the light in a newspaper," I replied, "but not because the magazine editors had been denied a glimpse at it." "We were talking of Harris," I said to Wolf Larsen. "Oh, yes," he acknowledged.
"Will you get a tourniquet, Mr. Van Weyden," Wolf Larsen called to me. I hesitated. Her lips moved, and though they formed no words, she commanded me with her eyes, plainly as speech, to go to the help of the unfortunate man. "Please," she managed to whisper, and I could but obey.
A terrible suspicion rests upon him And I, unhappy man that I am, must be his judge. And his daughter is my betrothed bride! May the Saviour have pity on us! It was yesterday that this horrible thing came. About half an hour before sunrise Morten Bruus came to my house and had with him the cotter Jens Larsen of Veilbye, and the widow and daughter of the shepherd of that parish.
"Is that you Larsen?" "No, Bompard, and you?" "La Touche Row God! Listen, there's a chap ahead." The cries ahead ceased, and the boat bumped on something that duddered away under it and sank. "He's gone, whoever he is," cried Bompard. "No use hunting for him. Listen, there's more." Voices shrill and voices bubbling came through the blackness from here and from there.
I'm inclined to think they are the Antichrist the Bible foretells." "Ah, but what do they really want?" asked Baker Jorgen. "What is their madness really driving at?" "What do they want?" Wooden-leg Larsen pulled himself together.
"The day Sissie Larsen was supposed to leave town that was the day he got killed." "Do you remember the date?" "No I don't remember that." "Would it be in your book?" She seemed to become suddenly excited. She half rose in her chair and looked down the line of benches to where her husband sat, the scar showing plainly in the rather brilliant light, his eyes narrowed until they were nearly closed.
And for the space of several minutes he lay there, quiet, indulging his grotesque fancy. The man of him was not changed. It was the old, indomitable, terrible Wolf Larsen, imprisoned somewhere within that flesh which had once been so invincible and splendid.
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