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

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