I awoke, oppressed by a mysterious sensation. There seemed
something missing in my environment. But the mystery and
oppressiveness vanished after the first few seconds of waking, when
I identified the missing something as the wind. I had fallen
asleep in that state of nerve tension with which one meets the
continuous shock of sound or movement, and I had awakened, still
tense, bracing myself to meet the pressure of something which no
longer bore upon me.

It was the first night I had spent under cover in several months,
and I lay luxuriously for some minutes under my blankets (for once
not wet with fog or spray), analysing, first, the effect produced
upon me by the cessation of the wind, and next, the joy which was
mine from resting on the mattress made by Maud's hands. When I had
dressed and opened the door, I heard the waves still lapping on the
beach, garrulously attesting the fury of the night. It was a clear
day, and the sun was shining. I had slept late, and I stepped
outside with sudden energy, bent upon making up lost time as
befitted a dweller on Endeavour Island.

And when outside, I stopped short. I believed my eyes without
question, and yet I was for the moment stunned by what they
disclosed to me. There, on the beach, not fifty feet away, bow on,
dismasted, was a black-hulled vessel. Masts and booms, tangled
with shrouds, sheets, and rent canvas, were rubbing gently
alongside. I could have rubbed my eyes as I looked. There was the
home-made galley we had built, the familiar break of the poop, the
low yacht-cabin scarcely rising above the rail. It was the Ghost.

What freak of fortune had brought it here--here of all spots? what
chance of chances? I looked at the bleak, inaccessible wall at my
back and know the profundity of despair. Escape was hopeless, out
of the question. I thought of Maud, asleep there in the hut we had
reared; I remembered her "Good-night, Humphrey"; "my woman, my
mate," went ringing through my brain, but now, alas, it was a knell
that sounded. Then everything went black before my eyes.

Possibly it was the fraction of a second, but I had no knowledge of
how long an interval had lapsed before I was myself again. There
lay the Ghost, bow on to the beach, her splintered bowsprit
projecting over the sand, her tangled spars rubbing against her
side to the lift of the crooning waves. Something must be done,
must be done.

It came upon me suddenly, as strange, that nothing moved aboard.
Wearied from the night of struggle and wreck, all hands were yet
asleep, I thought. My next thought was that Maud and I might yet
escape. If we could take to the boat and make round the point
before any one awoke? I would call her and start. My hand was
lifted at her door to knock, when I recollected the smallness of
the island. We could never hide ourselves upon it. There was
nothing for us but the wide raw ocean. I thought of our snug
little huts, our supplies of meat and oil and moss and firewood,
and I knew that we could never survive the wintry sea and the great
storms which were to come.

So I stood, with hesitant knuckle, without her door. It was
impossible, impossible. A wild thought of rushing in and killing
her as she slept rose in my mind. And then, in a flash, the better
solution came to me. All hands were asleep. Why not creep aboard
the Ghost,--well I knew the way to Wolf Larsen's bunk,--and kill
him in his sleep? After that--well, we would see. But with him
dead there was time and space in which to prepare to do other
things; and besides, whatever new situation arose, it could not
possibly be worse than the present one.

My knife was at my hip. I returned to my hut for the shot-gun,
made sure it was loaded, and went down to the Ghost. With some
difficulty, and at the expense of a wetting to the waist, I climbed
aboard. The forecastle scuttle was open. I paused to listen for
the breathing of the men, but there was no breathing. I almost
gasped as the thought came to me: What if the Ghost is deserted?
I listened more closely. There was no sound. I cautiously
descended the ladder. The place had the empty and musty feel and
smell usual to a dwelling no longer inhabited. Everywhere was a
thick litter of discarded and ragged garments, old sea-boots, leaky
oilskins--all the worthless forecastle dunnage of a long voyage.

Abandoned hastily, was my conclusion, as I ascended to the deck.
Hope was alive again in my breast, and I looked about me with
greater coolness. I noted that the boats were missing. The
steerage told the same tale as the forecastle. The hunters had
packed their belongings with similar haste. The Ghost was
deserted. It was Maud's and mine. I thought of the ship's stores
and the lazarette beneath the cabin, and the idea came to me of
surprising Maud with something nice for breakfast.

The reaction from my fear, and the knowledge that the terrible deed
I had come to do was no longer necessary, made me boyish and eager.
I went up the steerage companion-way two steps at a time, with
nothing distinct in my mind except joy and the hope that Maud would
sleep on until the surprise breakfast was quite ready for her. As
I rounded the galley, a new satisfaction was mine at thought of all
the splendid cooking utensils inside. I sprang up the break of the
poop, and saw--Wolf Larsen. What of my impetus and the stunning
surprise, I clattered three or four steps along the deck before I
could stop myself. He was standing in the companion-way, only his
head and shoulders visible, staring straight at me. His arms were
resting on the half-open slide. He made no movement whatever--
simply stood there, staring at me.

I began to tremble. The old stomach sickness clutched me. I put
one hand on the edge of the house to steady myself. My lips seemed
suddenly dry and I moistened them against the need of speech. Nor
did I for an instant take my eyes off him. Neither of us spoke.
There was something ominous in his silence, his immobility. All my
old fear of him returned and by new fear was increased an hundred-
fold. And still we stood, the pair of us, staring at each other.

I was aware of the demand for action, and, my old helplessness
strong upon me, I was waiting for him to take the initiative.
Then, as the moments went by, it came to me that the situation was
analogous to the one in which I had approached the long-maned bull,
my intention of clubbing obscured by fear until it became a desire
to make him run. So it was at last impressed upon me that I was
there, not to have Wolf Larsen take the initiative, but to take it
myself.

I cocked both barrels and levelled the shot-gun at him. Had he
moved, attempted to drop down the companion-way, I know I would
have shot him. But he stood motionless and staring as before. And
as I faced him, with levelled gun shaking in my hands, I had time
to note the worn and haggard appearance of his face. It was as if
some strong anxiety had wasted it. The cheeks were sunken, and
there was a wearied, puckered expression on the brow. And it
seemed to me that his eyes were strange, not only the expression,
but the physical seeming, as though the optic nerves and supporting
muscles had suffered strain and slightly twisted the eyeballs.

All this I saw, and my brain now working rapidly, I thought a
thousand thoughts; and yet I could not pull the triggers. I
lowered the gun and stepped to the corner of the cabin, primarily
to relieve the tension on my nerves and to make a new start, and
incidentally to be closer. Again I raised the gun. He was almost
at arm's length. There was no hope for him. I was resolved.
There was no possible chance of missing him, no matter how poor my
marksmanship. And yet I wrestled with myself and could not pull
the triggers.

"Well?" he demanded impatiently.

I strove vainly to force my fingers down on the triggers, and
vainly I strove to say something.

"Why don't you shoot?" he asked.

I cleared my throat of a huskiness which prevented speech. "Hump,"
he said slowly, "you can't do it. You are not exactly afraid. You
are impotent. Your conventional morality is stronger than you.
You are the slave to the opinions which have credence among the
people you have known and have read about. Their code has been
drummed into your head from the time you lisped, and in spite of
your philosophy, and of what I have taught you, it won't let you
kill an unarmed, unresisting man."

"I know it," I said hoarsely.

"And you know that I would kill an unarmed man as readily as I
would smoke a cigar," he went on. "You know me for what I am,--my
worth in the world by your standard. You have called me snake,
tiger, shark, monster, and Caliban. And yet, you little rag
puppet, you little echoing mechanism, you are unable to kill me as
you would a snake or a shark, because I have hands, feet, and a
body shaped somewhat like yours. Bah! I had hoped better things of
you, Hump."

He stepped out of the companion-way and came up to me.

"Put down that gun. I want to ask you some questions. I haven't
had a chance to look around yet. What place is this? How is the
Ghost lying? How did you get wet? Where's Maud?--I beg your
pardon, Miss Brewster--or should I say, 'Mrs. Van Weyden'?"

I had backed away from him, almost weeping at my inability to shoot
him, but not fool enough to put down the gun. I hoped,
desperately, that he might commit some hostile act, attempt to
strike me or choke me; for in such way only I knew I could be
stirred to shoot.

"This is Endeavour Island," I said.

"Never heard of it," he broke in.

"At least, that's our name for it," I amended.

"Our?" he queried. "Who's our?"

"Miss Brewster and myself. And the Ghost is lying, as you can see
for yourself, bow on to the beach."

"There are seals here," he said. "They woke me up with their
barking, or I'd be sleeping yet. I heard them when I drove in last
night. They were the first warning that I was on a lee shore.
It's a rookery, the kind of a thing I've hunted for years. Thanks
to my brother Death, I've lighted on a fortune. It's a mint.
What's its bearings?"

"Haven't the least idea," I said. "But you ought to know quite
closely. What were your last observations?"

He smiled inscrutably, but did not answer.

"Well, where's all hands?" I asked. "How does it come that you are
alone?"

I was prepared for him again to set aside my question, and was
surprised at the readiness of his reply.

"My brother got me inside forty-eight hours, and through no fault
of mine. Boarded me in the night with only the watch on deck.
Hunters went back on me. He gave them a bigger lay. Heard him
offering it. Did it right before me. Of course the crew gave me
the go-by. That was to be expected. All hands went over the side,
and there I was, marooned on my own vessel. It was Death's turn,
and it's all in the family anyway."

"But how did you lose the masts?" I asked.

"Walk over and examine those lanyards," he said, pointing to where
the mizzen-rigging should have been.

"They have been cut with a knife!" I exclaimed.

"Not quite," he laughed. "It was a neater job. Look again."

I looked. The lanyards had been almost severed, with just enough
left to hold the shrouds till some severe strain should be put upon
them

"Cooky did that," he laughed again. "I know, though I didn't spot
him at it. Kind of evened up the score a bit."

"Good for Mugridge!" I cried.

"Yes, that's what I thought when everything went over the side.
Only I said it on the other side of my mouth."

"But what were you doing while all this was going on?" I asked.

"My best, you may be sure, which wasn't much under the
circumstances."

I turned to re-examine Thomas Mugridge's work.

"I guess I'll sit down and take the sunshine," I heard Wolf Larsen
saying.

There was a hint, just a slight hint, of physical feebleness in his
voice, and it was so strange that I looked quickly at him. His
hand was sweeping nervously across his face, as though he were
brushing away cobwebs. I was puzzled. The whole thing was so
unlike the Wolf Larsen I had known.

"How are your headaches?" I asked.

"They still trouble me," was his answer. "I think I have one
coming on now."

He slipped down from his sitting posture till he lay on the deck.
Then he rolled over on his side, his head resting on the biceps of
the under arm, the forearm shielding his eyes from the sun. I
stood regarding him wonderingly.

"Now's your chance, Hump," he said.

"I don't understand," I lied, for I thoroughly understood.

"Oh, nothing," he added softly, as if he were drowsing; "only
you've got me where you want me."

"No, I haven't," I retorted; "for I want you a few thousand miles
away from here."

He chuckled, and thereafter spoke no more. He did not stir as I
passed by him and went down into the cabin. I lifted the trap in
the floor, but for some moments gazed dubiously into the darkness
of the lazarette beneath. I hesitated to descend. What if his
lying down were a ruse? Pretty, indeed, to be caught there like a
rat. I crept softly up the companion-way and peeped at him. He
was lying as I had left him. Again I went below; but before I
dropped into the lazarette I took the precaution of casting down
the door in advance. At least there would be no lid to the trap.
But it was all needless. I regained the cabin with a store of
jams, sea-biscuits, canned meats, and such things,--all I could
carry,--and replaced the trap-door.

A peep at Wolf Larsen showed me that he had not moved. A bright
thought struck me. I stole into his state-room and possessed
myself of his revolvers. There were no other weapons, though I
thoroughly ransacked the three remaining state-rooms. To make
sure, I returned and went through the steerage and forecastle, and
in the galley gathered up all the sharp meat and vegetable knives.
Then I bethought me of the great yachtsman's knife he always
carried, and I came to him and spoke to him, first softly, then
loudly. He did not move. I bent over and took it from his pocket.
I breathed more freely. He had no arms with which to attack me
from a distance; while I, armed, could always forestall him should
he attempt to grapple me with his terrible gorilla arms.

Filling a coffee-pot and frying-pan with part of my plunder, and
taking some chinaware from the cabin pantry, I left Wolf Larsen
lying in the sun and went ashore.

Maud was still asleep. I blew up the embers (we had not yet
arranged a winter kitchen), and quite feverishly cooked the
breakfast. Toward the end, I heard her moving about within the
hut, making her toilet. Just as all was ready and the coffee
poured, the door opened and she came forth.

"It's not fair of you," was her greeting. "You are usurping one of
my prerogatives. You know you I agreed that the cooking should be
mine, and--"

"But just this once," I pleaded.

"If you promise not to do it again," she smiled. "Unless, of
course, you have grown tired of my poor efforts."

To my delight she never once looked toward the beach, and I
maintained the banter with such success all unconsciously she
sipped coffee from the china cup, ate fried evaporated potatoes,
and spread marmalade on her biscuit. But it could not last. I saw
the surprise that came over her. She had discovered the china
plate from which she was eating. She looked over the breakfast,
noting detail after detail. Then she looked at me, and her face
turned slowly toward the beach.

"Humphrey!" she said.

The old unnamable terror mounted into her eyes.

"Is--he?" she quavered.

I nodded my head.