JACK LONDON: All 22 Novels in One Illustrated Edition. Джек Лондон

They were of the same schooner-rig as the Ghost, though the hull itself, I could see, was smaller. She was a pretty sight, leaping and flying toward us, and evidently bound to pass at close range. The wind had been momentarily increasing, and the sun, after a few angry gleams, had disappeared. The sea had turned a dull leaden grey and grown rougher, and was now tossing foaming whitecaps to the sky. We were travelling faster, and heeled farther over. Once, in a gust, the rail dipped under the sea, and the decks on that side were for the moment awash with water that made a couple of the hunters hastily lift their feet.

      “That vessel will soon be passing us,” I said, after a moment’s pause. “As she is going in the opposite direction, she is very probably bound for San Francisco.”

      “Very probably,” was Wolf Larsen’s answer, as he turned partly away from me and cried out, “Cooky! Oh, Cooky!”

      The Cockney popped out of the galley.

      “Where’s that boy? Tell him I want him.”

      “Yes, sir;” and Thomas Mugridge fled swiftly aft and disappeared down another companion-way near the wheel. A moment later he emerged, a heavy-set young fellow of eighteen or nineteen, with a glowering, villainous countenance, trailing at his heels.

      “‘Ere ‘e is, sir,” the cook said.

      But Wolf Larsen ignored that worthy, turning at once to the cabin-boy.

      “What’s your name, boy?

      “George Leach, sir,” came the sullen answer, and the boy’s bearing showed clearly that he divined the reason for which he had been summoned.

      “Not an Irish name,” the captain snapped sharply. “O’Toole or McCarthy would suit your mug a damn sight better. Unless, very likely, there’s an Irishman in your mother’s woodpile.”

      I saw the young fellow’s hands clench at the insult, and the blood crawl scarlet up his neck.

      “But let that go,” Wolf Larsen continued. “You may have very good reasons for forgetting your name, and I’ll like you none the worse for it as long as you toe the mark. Telegraph Hill, of course, is your port of entry. It sticks out all over your mug. Tough as they make them and twice as nasty. I know the kind. Well, you can make up your mind to have it taken out of you on this craft. Understand? Who shipped you, anyway?”

      “McCready and Swanson.”

      “Sir!” Wolf Larsen thundered.

      “McCready and Swanson, sir,” the boy corrected, his eyes burning with a bitter light.

      “Who got the advance money?”

      “They did, sir.”

      “I thought as much. And damned glad you were to let them have it. Couldn’t make yourself scarce too quick, with several gentlemen you may have heard of looking for you.”

      The boy metamorphosed into a savage on the instant. His body bunched together as though for a spring, and his face became as an infuriated beast’s as he snarled, “It’s a—”

      “A what?” Wolf Larsen asked, a peculiar softness in his voice, as though he were overwhelmingly curious to hear the unspoken word.

      The boy hesitated, then mastered his temper. “Nothin’, sir. I take it back.”

      “And you have shown me I was right.” This with a gratified smile. “How old are you?”

      “Just turned sixteen, sir,”

      “A lie. You’ll never see eighteen again. Big for your age at that, with muscles like a horse. Pack up your kit and go for’ard into the fo’c’sle. You’re a boat-puller now. You’re promoted; see?”

      Without waiting for the boy’s acceptance, the captain turned to the sailor who had just finished the gruesome task of sewing up the corpse. “Johansen, do you know anything about navigation?”

      “No, sir,”

      “Well, never mind; you’re mate just the same. Get your traps aft into the mate’s berth.”

      “Ay, ay, sir,” was the cheery response, as Johansen started forward.

      In the meantime the erstwhile cabin-boy had not moved. “What are you waiting for?” Wolf Larsen demanded.

      “I didn’t sign for boat-puller, sir,” was the reply. “I signed for cabin-boy. An’ I don’t want no boat-pullin’ in mine.”

      “Pack up and go for’ard.”

      This time Wolf Larsen’s command was thrillingly imperative. The boy glowered sullenly, but refused to move.

      Then came another stirring of Wolf Larsen’s tremendous strength. It was utterly unexpected, and it was over and done with between the ticks of two seconds. He had sprung fully six feet across the deck and driven his fist into the other’s stomach. At the same moment, as though I had been struck myself, I felt a sickening shock in the pit of my stomach. I instance this to show the sensitiveness of my nervous organization at the time, and how unused I was to spectacles of brutality. The cabin-boy—and he weighed one hundred and sixty-five at the very least—crumpled up. His body wrapped limply about the fist like a wet rag about a stick. He lifted into the air, described a short curve, and struck the deck alongside the corpse on his head and shoulders, where he lay and writhed about in agony.

      “Well?” Larsen asked of me. “Have you made up your mind?”

      I had glanced occasionally at the approaching schooner, and it was now almost abreast of us and not more than a couple of hundred yards away. It was a very trim and neat little craft. I could see a large, black number on one of its sails, and I had seen pictures of pilot-boats.

      “What vessel is that?” I asked.

      “The pilot-boat Lady Mine,” Wolf Larsen answered grimly. “Got rid of her pilots and running into San Francisco. She’ll be there in five or six hours with this wind.”

      “Will you please signal it, then, so that I may be put ashore.”

      “Sorry, but I’ve lost the signal book overboard,” he remarked, and the group of hunters grinned.

      I debated a moment, looking him squarely in the eyes. I had seen the frightful treatment of the cabin-boy, and knew that I should very probably receive the same, if not worse. As I say, I debated with myself, and then I did what I consider the bravest act of my life. I ran to the side, waving my arms and shouting:

      “Lady Mine ahoy! Take me ashore! A thousand dollars if you take me ashore!”

      I waited, watching two men who stood by the wheel, one of them steering. The other was lifting a megaphone to his lips. I did not turn my head, though I expected every moment a killing blow from the human brute behind me. At last, after what seemed centuries, unable longer to stand the strain, I looked around. He had not moved. He was standing in the same position, swaying easily to the roll of the ship and lighting a fresh cigar.

      “What is the matter? Anything wrong?”

      This was the cry from the Lady Mine.

      “Yes!” I shouted, at the top of my lungs. “Life or death! One thousand dollars if you take me ashore!”

      “Too much ‘Frisco tanglefoot for the health of my crew!” Wolf Larsen shouted after. “This one”—indicating me with his thumb— “fancies sea-serpents and monkeys just now!”

      The man on the Lady Mine laughed back through the megaphone. The pilot-boat plunged past.

      “Give him hell for me!” came a final cry, and the two men waved their arms in farewell.

      I leaned despairingly over the rail, watching the trim little schooner swiftly increasing the bleak sweep of ocean between us. And she would probably be in San Francisco in five or six hours! My head seemed bursting. There was an ache in my throat as though my heart were up in it. A curling wave struck the side and splashed salt spray