But my first night in the hunters' steerage was also my last. Next
day Johansen, the new mate, was routed from the cabin by Wolf
Larsen, and sent into the steerage to sleep thereafter, while I
took possession of the tiny cabin state-room, which, on the first
day of the voyage, had already had two occupants. The reason for
this change was quickly learned by the hunters, and became the
cause of a deal of grumbling on their part. It seemed that
Johansen, in his sleep, lived over each night the events of the
day. His incessant talking and shouting and bellowing of orders
had been too much for Wolf Larsen, who had accordingly foisted the
nuisance upon his hunters.

After a sleepless night, I arose weak and in agony, to hobble
through my second day on the Ghost. Thomas Mugridge routed me out
at half-past five, much in the fashion that Bill Sykes must have
routed out his dog; but Mr. Mugridge's brutality to me was paid
back in kind and with interest. The unnecessary noise he made (I
had lain wide-eyed the whole night) must have awakened one of the
hunters; for a heavy shoe whizzed through the semi-darkness, and
Mr. Mugridge, with a sharp howl of pain, humbly begged everybody's
pardon. Later on, in the galley, I noticed that his ear was
bruised and swollen. It never went entirely back to its normal
shape, and was called a "cauliflower ear" by the sailors.

The day was filled with miserable variety. I had taken my dried
clothes down from the galley the night before, and the first thing
I did was to exchange the cook's garments for them. I looked for
my purse. In addition to some small change (and I have a good
memory for such things), it had contained one hundred and eighty-
five dollars in gold and paper. The purse I found, but its
contents, with the exception of the small silver, had been
abstracted. I spoke to the cook about it, when I went on deck to
take up my duties in the galley, and though I had looked forward to
a surly answer, I had not expected the belligerent harangue that I
received.

"Look 'ere, 'Ump," he began, a malicious light in his eyes and a
snarl in his throat; "d'ye want yer nose punched? If you think I'm
a thief, just keep it to yerself, or you'll find 'ow bloody well
mistyken you are. Strike me blind if this ayn't gratitude for yer!
'Ere you come, a pore mis'rable specimen of 'uman scum, an' I tykes
yer into my galley an' treats yer 'ansom, an' this is wot I get for
it. Nex' time you can go to 'ell, say I, an' I've a good mind to
give you what-for anyw'y."

So saying, he put up his fists and started for me. To my shame be
it, I cowered away from the blow and ran out the galley door. What
else was I to do? Force, nothing but force, obtained on this
brute-ship. Moral suasion was a thing unknown. Picture it to
yourself: a man of ordinary stature, slender of build, and with
weak, undeveloped muscles, who has lived a peaceful, placid life,
and is unused to violence of any sort--what could such a man
possibly do? There was no more reason that I should stand and face
these human beasts than that I should stand and face an infuriated
bull.

So I thought it out at the time, feeling the need for vindication
and desiring to be at peace with my conscience. But this
vindication did not satisfy. Nor, to this day can I permit my
manhood to look back upon those events and feel entirely
exonerated. The situation was something that really exceeded
rational formulas for conduct and demanded more than the cold
conclusions of reason. When viewed in the light of formal logic,
there is not one thing of which to be ashamed; but nevertheless a
shame rises within me at the recollection, and in the pride of my
manhood I feel that my manhood has in unaccountable ways been
smirched and sullied.

All of which is neither here nor there. The speed with which I ran
from the galley caused excruciating pain in my knee, and I sank
down helplessly at the break of the poop. But the Cockney had not
pursued me.

"Look at 'im run! Look at 'im run!" I could hear him crying. "An'
with a gyme leg at that! Come on back, you pore little mamma's
darling. I won't 'it yer; no, I won't."

I came back and went on with my work; and here the episode ended
for the time, though further developments were yet to take place.
I set the breakfast-table in the cabin, and at seven o'clock waited
on the hunters and officers. The storm had evidently broken during
the night, though a huge sea was still running and a stiff wind
blowing. Sail had been made in the early watches, so that the
Ghost was racing along under everything except the two topsails and
the flying jib. These three sails, I gathered from the
conversation, were to be set immediately after breakfast. I
learned, also, that Wolf Larsen was anxious to make the most of the
storm, which was driving him to the south-west into that portion of
the sea where he expected to pick up with the north-east trades.
It was before this steady wind that he hoped to make the major
portion of the run to Japan, curving south into the tropics and
north again as he approached the coast of Asia.

After breakfast I had another unenviable experience. When I had
finished washing the dishes, I cleaned the cabin stove and carried
the ashes up on deck to empty them. Wolf Larsen and Henderson were
standing near the wheel, deep in conversation. The sailor,
Johnson, was steering. As I started toward the weather side I saw
him make a sudden motion with his head, which I mistook for a token
of recognition and good-morning. In reality, he was attempting to
warn me to throw my ashes over the lee side. Unconscious of my
blunder, I passed by Wolf Larsen and the hunter and flung the ashes
over the side to windward. The wind drove them back, and not only
over me, but over Henderson and Wolf Larsen. The next instant the
latter kicked me, violently, as a cur is kicked. I had not
realized there could be so much pain in a kick. I reeled away from
him and leaned against the cabin in a half-fainting condition.
Everything was swimming before my eyes, and I turned sick. The
nausea overpowered me, and I managed to crawl to the side of the
vessel. But Wolf Larsen did not follow me up. Brushing the ashes
from his clothes, he had resumed his conversation with Henderson.
Johansen, who had seen the affair from the break of the poop, sent
a couple of sailors aft to clean up the mess.

Later in the morning I received a surprise of a totally different
sort. Following the cook's instructions, I had gone into Wolf
Larsen's state-room to put it to rights and make the bed. Against
the wall, near the head of the bunk, was a rack filled with books.
I glanced over them, noting with astonishment such names as
Shakespeare, Tennyson, Poe, and De Quincey. There were scientific
works, too, among which were represented men such as Tyndall,
Proctor, and Darwin. Astronomy and physics were represented, and I
remarked Bulfinch's Age of Fable, Shaw's History of English and
American Literature, and Johnson's Natural History in two large
volumes. Then there were a number of grammars, such as Metcalf's,
and Reed and Kellogg's; and I smiled as I saw a copy of The Dean's
English.

I could not reconcile these books with the man from what I had seen
of him, and I wondered if he could possibly read them. But when I
came to make the bed I found, between the blankets, dropped
apparently as he had sunk off to sleep, a complete Browning, the
Cambridge Edition. It was open at "In a Balcony," and I noticed,
here and there, passages underlined in pencil. Further, letting
drop the volume during a lurch of the ship, a sheet of paper fell
out. It was scrawled over with geometrical diagrams and
calculations of some sort.

It was patent that this terrible man was no ignorant clod, such as
one would inevitably suppose him to be from his exhibitions of
brutality. At once he became an enigma. One side or the other of
his nature was perfectly comprehensible; but both sides together
were bewildering. I had already remarked that his language was
excellent, marred with an occasional slight inaccuracy. Of course,
in common speech with the sailors and hunters, it sometimes fairly
bristled with errors, which was due to the vernacular itself; but
in the few words he had held with me it had been clear and correct.

This glimpse I had caught of his other side must have emboldened
me, for I resolved to speak to him about the money I had lost.

"I have been robbed," I said to him, a little later, when I found
him pacing up and down the poop alone.

"Sir," he corrected, not harshly, but sternly.

"I have been robbed, sir," I amended.

"How did it happen?" he asked.

Then I told him the whole circumstance, how my clothes had been
left to dry in the galley, and how, later, I was nearly beaten by
the cook when I mentioned the matter.

He smiled at my recital. "Pickings," he concluded; "Cooky's
pickings. And don't you think your miserable life worth the price?
Besides, consider it a lesson. You'll learn in time how to take
care of your money for yourself. I suppose, up to now, your lawyer
has done it for you, or your business agent."

I could feel the quiet sneer through his words, but demanded, "How
can I get it back again?"

"That's your look-out. You haven't any lawyer or business agent
now, so you'll have to depend on yourself. When you get a dollar,
hang on to it. A man who leaves his money lying around, the way
you did, deserves to lose it. Besides, you have sinned. You have
no right to put temptation in the way of your fellow-creatures.
You tempted Cooky, and he fell. You have placed his immortal soul
in jeopardy. By the way, do you believe in the immortal soul?"

His lids lifted lazily as he asked the question, and it seemed that
the deeps were opening to me and that I was gazing into his soul.
But it was an illusion. Far as it might have seemed, no man has
ever seen very far into Wolf Larsen's soul, or seen it at all,--of
this I am convinced. It was a very lonely soul, I was to learn,
that never unmasked, though at rare moments it played at doing so.

"I read immortality in your eyes," I answered, dropping the "sir,"-
-an experiment, for I thought the intimacy of the conversation
warranted it.

He took no notice. "By that, I take it, you see something that is
alive, but that necessarily does not have to live for ever."

"I read more than that," I continued boldly.

"Then you read consciousness. You read the consciousness of life
that it is alive; but still no further away, no endlessness of
life."

How clearly he thought, and how well he expressed what he thought!
From regarding me curiously, he turned his head and glanced out
over the leaden sea to windward. A bleakness came into his eyes,
and the lines of his mouth grew severe and harsh. He was evidently
in a pessimistic mood.

"Then to what end?" he demanded abruptly, turning back to me. "If
I am immortal--why?"

I halted. How could I explain my idealism to this man? How could
I put into speech a something felt, a something like the strains of
music heard in sleep, a something that convinced yet transcended
utterance?

"What do you believe, then?" I countered.

"I believe that life is a mess," he answered promptly. "It is like
yeast, a ferment, a thing that moves and may move for a minute, an
hour, a year, or a hundred years, but that in the end will cease to
move. The big eat the little that they may continue to move, the
strong eat the weak that they may retain their strength. The lucky
eat the most and move the longest, that is all. What do you make
of those things?"

He swept his am in an impatient gesture toward a number of the
sailors who were working on some kind of rope stuff amidships.

"They move, so does the jelly-fish move. They move in order to eat
in order that they may keep moving. There you have it. They live
for their belly's sake, and the belly is for their sake. It's a
circle; you get nowhere. Neither do they. In the end they come to
a standstill. They move no more. They are dead."

"They have dreams," I interrupted, "radiant, flashing dreams--"

"Of grub," he concluded sententiously.

"And of more--"

"Grub. Of a larger appetite and more luck in satisfying it." His
voice sounded harsh. There was no levity in it. "For, look you,
they dream of making lucky voyages which will bring them more
money, of becoming the mates of ships, of finding fortunes--in
short, of being in a better position for preying on their fellows,
of having all night in, good grub and somebody else to do the dirty
work. You and I are just like them. There is no difference,
except that we have eaten more and better. I am eating them now,
and you too. But in the past you have eaten more than I have. You
have slept in soft beds, and worn fine clothes, and eaten good
meals. Who made those beds? and those clothes? and those meals?
Not you. You never made anything in your own sweat. You live on
an income which your father earned. You are like a frigate bird
swooping down upon the boobies and robbing them of the fish they
have caught. You are one with a crowd of men who have made what
they call a government, who are masters of all the other men, and
who eat the food the other men get and would like to eat
themselves. You wear the warm clothes. They made the clothes, but
they shiver in rags and ask you, the lawyer, or business agent who
handles your money, for a job."

"But that is beside the matter," I cried.

"Not at all." He was speaking rapidly now, and his eyes were
flashing. "It is piggishness, and it is life. Of what use or
sense is an immortality of piggishness? What is the end? What is
it all about? You have made no food. Yet the food you have eaten
or wasted might have saved the lives of a score of wretches who
made the food but did not eat it. What immortal end did you serve?
or did they? Consider yourself and me. What does your boasted
immortality amount to when your life runs foul of mine? You would
like to go back to the land, which is a favourable place for your
kind of piggishness. It is a whim of mine to keep you aboard this
ship, where my piggishness flourishes. And keep you I will. I may
make or break you. You may die to-day, this week, or next month.
I could kill you now, with a blow of my fist, for you are a
miserable weakling. But if we are immortal, what is the reason for
this? To be piggish as you and I have been all our lives does not
seem to be just the thing for immortals to be doing. Again, what's
it all about? Why have I kept you here?--"

"Because you are stronger," I managed to blurt out.

"But why stronger?" he went on at once with his perpetual queries.
"Because I am a bigger bit of the ferment than you? Don't you see?
Don't you see?"

"But the hopelessness of it," I protested.

"I agree with you," he answered. "Then why move at all, since
moving is living? Without moving and being part of the yeast there
would be no hopelessness. But,--and there it is,--we want to live
and move, though we have no reason to, because it happens that it
is the nature of life to live and move, to want to live and move.
If it were not for this, life would be dead. It is because of this
life that is in you that you dream of your immortality. The life
that is in you is alive and wants to go on being alive for ever.
Bah! An eternity of piggishness!"

He abruptly turned on his heel and started forward. He stopped at
the break of the poop and called me to him.

"By the way, how much was it that Cooky got away with?" he asked.

"One hundred and eighty-five dollars, sir," I answered.

He nodded his head. A moment later, as I started down the
companion stairs to lay the table for dinner, I heard him loudly
curing some men amidships.