The Sea Wolf by Jack London (free novels to read .TXT) 📕

“Or like a wise man looking upon fools and wishing he, too, were a fool,” I laughed.

“Quite so,” he said.  “You are a blessed, bankrupt pair of fools.  You have no facts in your pocketbook.”

“Yet we spend as freely as you,” was Maud Brewster’s contribution.

“More freely, because it costs you nothing.”

“And because we draw upon eternity,” she retorted.

“Whether you do or think you do, it’s the same thing.  You spend what you haven’t got, and in return you get greater value from spending what you haven’t got than I get from spending what I have got, and what I have sweated to get.”

“Why don’t you change the basis of your coinage, then?” she queried teasingly.

He looked at her quickly, half-hopefully, and then said, all regretfully: “Too late.  I’d like to, perhaps, but I can’t.  My pocketbook is stuffed with the old coinage, and it’s a stubborn thing.  I can never bring myself to recognize anything else as valid.”

He ceased speaking, and his gaze wandered absently past her and became lost in the placid sea.  The old primal melancholy was strong upon him.  He was quivering to it.  He had reasoned himself into a spell of the blues, and within few hours one could look for the devil within him to be up and stirring.  I remembered Charley Furuseth, and knew this man’s sadness as the penalty which the materialist ever pays for his materialism.

“You’ve been on deck, Mr. Van Weyden,” Wolf Larsen said, the following morning at the breakfast-table, “How do things look?”

“Clear enough,” I answered, glancing at the sunshine which streamed down the open companion-way.  “Fair westerly breeze, with a promise of stiffening, if Louis predicts correctly.”

He nodded his head in a pleased way.  “Any signs of fog?”

“Thick banks in the north and north-west.”

He nodded his head again, evincing even greater satisfaction than before.

“What of the Macedonia?”

“Not sighted,” I answered.

I could have sworn his face fell at the intelligence, but why he should be disappointed I could not conceive.

I was soon to learn.  “Smoke ho!” came the hail from on deck, and his face brightened.

“Good!” he exclaimed, and left the table at once to go on deck and into the steerage, where the hunters were taking the first breakfast of their exile.

Maud Brewster and I scarcely touched the food before us, gazing, instead, in silent anxiety at each other, and listening to Wolf Larsen’s voice, which easily penetrated the cabin through the intervening bulkhead.  He spoke at length, and his conclusion was greeted with a wild roar of cheers.  The bulkhead was too thick for us to hear what he said; but whatever it was it affected the hunters strongly, for the cheering was followed by loud exclamations and shouts of joy.

From the sounds on deck I knew that the sailors had been routed out and were preparing to lower the boats.  Maud Brewster accompanied me on deck, but I left her at the break of the poop, where she might watch the scene and not be in it.  The sailors must have learned whatever project was on hand, and the vim and snap they put into their work attested their enthusiasm.  The hunters came trooping on deck with shot-guns and ammunition-boxes, and, most unusual, their rifles.  The latter were rarely taken in the boats, for a seal shot at long range with a rifle invariably sank before a boat could reach it.  But each hunter this day had his rifle and a large supply of cartridges.  I noticed they grinned with satisfaction whenever they looked at the Macedonia’s smoke, which was rising higher and higher as she approached from the west.

The five boats went over the side with a rush, spread out like the ribs of a fan, and set a northerly course, as on the preceding afternoon, for us to follow.  I watched for some time, curiously, but there seemed nothing extraordinary about their behaviour.  They lowered sails, shot seals, and hoisted sails again, and continued on their way as I had always seen them do.  The Macedonia repeated her performance of yesterday, “hogging” the sea by dropping her line of boats in advance of ours and across our course.  Fourteen boats require a considerable spread of ocean for comfortable hunting, and when she had completely lapped our line she continued steaming into the north-east, dropping more boats as she went.

“What’s up?” I asked Wolf Larsen, unable longer to keep my curiosity in check.

“Never mind what’s up,” he answered gruffly.  “You won’t be a thousand years in finding out, and in the meantime just pray for plenty of wind.”

“Oh, well, I don’t mind telling you,” he said the next moment.  “I’m going to give that brother of mine a taste of his own medicine.  In short, I’m going to play the hog myself, and not for one day, but for the rest of the season,—if we’re in luck.”

“And if we’re not?” I queried.

“Not to be considered,” he laughed.  “We simply must be in luck, or it’s all up with us.”

He had the wheel at the time, and I went forward to my hospital in the forecastle, where lay the two crippled men, Nilson and Thomas Mugridge.  Nilson was as cheerful as could be expected, for his broken leg was knitting nicely; but the Cockney was desperately melancholy, and I was aware of a great sympathy for the unfortunate creature.  And the marvel of it was that still he lived and clung to life.  The brutal years had reduced his meagre body to splintered wreckage, and yet the spark of life within burned brightly as ever.

“With an artificial foot—and they make excellent ones—you will be stumping ships’ galleys to the end of time,” I assured him jovially.

But his answer was serious, nay, solemn.  “I don’t know about wot you s’y, Mr. Van W’yden, but I do know I’ll never rest ’appy till I see that ’ell-’ound bloody well dead.  ’E cawn’t live as long as me.  ’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.  The only change noticeable in our boats was that they had hauled close on the wind and were heading several points west of north.  Still, I could not see the expediency of the manœuvre, for the free sea was still intercepted by the Macedonia’s five weather boats, which, in turn, had hauled close on the wind.  Thus they slowly diverged toward the west, drawing farther away from the remainder of the boats in their line.  Our boats were rowing as well as sailing.  Even the hunters were pulling, and with three pairs of oars in the water they rapidly overhauled what I may appropriately term the enemy.

The smoke of the Macedonia had dwindled to a dim blot on the north-eastern horizon.  Of the steamer herself nothing was to be seen.  We had been loafing along, till now, our sails shaking half the time and spilling the wind; and twice, for short periods, we had been hove to.  But there was no more loafing.  Sheets were trimmed, and Wolf Larsen proceeded to put the Ghost through her paces.  We ran past our line of boats and bore down upon the first weather boat of the other line.

“Down that flying jib, Mr. Van Weyden,” Wolf Larsen commanded.  “And stand by to back over the jibs.”

I ran forward and had the downhaul of the flying jib all in and fast as we slipped by the boat a hundred feet to leeward.  The three men in it gazed at us suspiciously.  They had been hogging the sea, and they knew Wolf Larsen, by reputation at any rate.  I noted that the hunter, a huge Scandinavian sitting in the bow, held his rifle, ready to hand, across his knees.  It should have been in its proper place in the rack.  When they came opposite our stern, Wolf Larsen greeted them with a wave of the hand, and cried:

“Come on board and have a ’gam’!”

“To gam,” among the sealing-schooners, is a substitute for the verbs “to visit,” “to gossip.”  It expresses the garrulity of the sea, and is a pleasant break in the monotony of the life.

The Ghost swung around into the wind, and I finished my work forward in time to run aft and lend a hand with the mainsheet.

“You will please stay on deck, Miss Brewster,” Wolf Larsen said, as he started forward to meet his guest.  “And you too, Mr. Van Weyden.”

The boat had lowered its sail and run alongside.  The hunter, golden bearded like a sea-king, came over the rail and dropped on deck.  But his hugeness could not quite overcome his apprehensiveness.  Doubt and distrust showed strongly in his face.  It was a transparent face, for all of its hairy shield, and advertised instant relief when he glanced from Wolf Larsen to me, noted that there was only the pair of us, and then glanced over his own two men who had joined him.  Surely he had little reason to be afraid.  He towered like a Goliath above Wolf Larsen.  He must have measured six feet eight or nine inches in stature, and I subsequently learned his weight—240 pounds.  And there was no fat about him.  It was all bone and muscle.

A return of apprehension was apparent when, at the top of the companion-way, Wolf Larsen invited him below.  But he reassured himself with a glance down at his host—a big man himself but dwarfed by the propinquity of the giant.  So all hesitancy vanished, and the pair descended into the cabin.  In the meantime, his two men, as was the wont of visiting sailors, had gone forward into the forecastle to do some visiting themselves.

Suddenly, from the cabin came a great, choking bellow, followed by all the sounds of a furious struggle.  It was the leopard and the lion, and the lion made all the noise.  Wolf Larsen was the leopard.

“You see the sacredness of our hospitality,” I said bitterly to Maud Brewster.

She nodded her head that she heard, and I noted in her face the signs of the same sickness at sight or sound of violent struggle from which I had suffered so severely during my first weeks on the Ghost.

“Wouldn’t it be better if you went forward, say by the steerage companion-way, until it is over?” I suggested.

She shook her head and gazed at me pitifully.  She was not frightened, but appalled, rather, at the human animality of it.

“You will understand,” I took advantage of the opportunity to say, “whatever part I take in what is going on and what is to come, that I am compelled to take it—if you and I are ever to get out of this scrape with our lives.”

“It is not nice—for me,” I added.

“I understand,” she said, in a weak, far-away voice, and her eyes showed me that she did understand.

The sounds from below soon died away.  Then Wolf Larsen came alone on deck.  There was a slight flush under his bronze, but otherwise he bore no signs of the battle.

“Send those two men aft, Mr. Van Weyden,” he said.

I obeyed, and a minute or two later they stood before him.  “Hoist in your boat,” he said to them.  “Your hunter’s decided to stay aboard awhile and doesn’t want it pounding alongside.”

“Hoist in your boat, I said,” he repeated, this time in sharper tones as they hesitated to do his bidding.

“Who knows? you may have to sail with me for a time,” he said, quite softly, with a silken threat that belied the softness, as they moved slowly to comply, “and we