海狼(中文导读英文版)(txt+pdf+epub+mobi电子书下载)

作者：（美）杰克·伦敦

出版社：清华大学出版社

格式: AZW3, DOCX, EPUB, MOBI, PDF, TXT

海狼(中文导读英文版)试读：

前言

杰克·伦敦（Jack London，1876-1916），原名约翰·格利菲斯·伦敦（John Griffith London），美国著名作家，他在现代美国文学和世界文学界享有崇高的地位。

杰克·伦敦生于旧金山，是个私生子，后来他的母亲改嫁给境况不佳的约翰·伦敦。杰克·伦敦的童年是在穷苦中度过的，他当过牧童、报童、童工、工人、水手。他还参加过1893年大恐慌中失业大军组成的抗议队伍，以流浪罪被捕入狱，被罚做苦工几个月。出狱后，他一边拼命干活，一边刻苦学习，广泛涉猎达尔文、斯宾塞、尼采和马克思等人的著作。1896年，他考进加利福尼亚大学，一年后辍学。后来受到阿拉斯加淘金热的影响，加入了淘金者的行列，却因病空手而归。在经历各种失败和挫折之后，杰克·伦敦萌发了写作的愿望。

1899年，他发表了第一篇小说《给猎人》；1900年，在他出版短篇小说集《狼之子》后，立即饮誉文坛，并获得了丰厚的收入。从此，他埋头读书写作，成为职业作家。他是个多产的作家，一生共写了19部长篇小说、150多篇短篇小说以及3部剧本等。除《狼之子》之外，著名的作品还有：描写反抗压迫、回归自由与自然的《野性的呼唤》（1903），描写伦敦贫民生活的特写集《深渊中的人们》（1903），描写兽性般残忍和利己主义的长篇小说《海狼》（1904），描写充满野性的幼狼如何从荒野中进入文明世界的《白牙》（1906），政治幻想小说《铁蹄》（1908），自传体长篇小说《马丁·伊登》（1909）等。1916年杰克·伦敦在精神极度苦闷、空虚中自杀身亡。

在杰克·伦敦的众多作品中，《海狼》是其中的典型代表，是公认的世界文学名著。该书自出版以来，已被译成世界上几十种语言，且多次被改编成电影。

在中国，《海狼》是最受广大读者欢迎的经典小说之一。目前，在国内数量众多的《海狼》书籍中，主要的出版形式有两种：一种是中文翻译版，另一种是英文原版。而其中的英文原版越来越受到读者的欢迎，这主要是得益于中国人热衷于学习英文的大环境。从英文学习的角度来看，直接使用纯英文素材更有利于英语学习。考虑到对英文内容背景的了解有助于英文阅读，使用中文应该是一种比较好的方式，也可以说是该类型书的第三种版本形式。采用中文而非中英文对照的方式进行编排，这样有利于国内读者摆脱对英文阅读依赖中文注释的习惯。基于以上原因，我们决定编译《海狼》，采用中文英文版的形式出版。在中文中，我们尽力使其贴近原作的精髓，也尽可能保留原作故事主线。我们希望能够编出为当代中国读者所喜爱的经典读本。读者在阅读英文故事之前，可以先阅读中文内容，这样有利于了解故事背景，从而加快阅读速度。我们相信，该经典著作的引进对加强当代中国读者，特别是青少年读者的人文修养是非常有帮助的。

本书主要内容由王勋、纪飞编译。参加本书故事素材搜集整理及编译工作的还有郑佳、刘乃亚、赵雪、熊金玉、李丽秀、熊红华、王婷婷、孟宪行、胡国平、李晓红、贡东兴、陈楠、邵舒丽、冯洁、王业伟、徐鑫、王晓旭、周丽萍、熊建国、徐平国、肖洁、王小红等。限于我们的科学、人文素养和英语水平，书中难免不当之处，衷心希望读者朋友批评指正。第一章　Chapter 1导读

有时候我甚至将这次可悲的遭遇都归结于弗罗萨身上，要不是去看望在米尔山谷的他，我就不会一大早在航行的“马丁尼号”上了。幸亏马丁尼号已经在这条航线走过好几遍。我对于海面上的危险的事物并不了解，仍旧得意洋洋地在甲板上呼吸着新鲜的空气，想象着专业分工的好处。船长和船员们对航海技术的精通，使得我们不必担心，也没有必要去学会各种复杂的知识。

一个男子曾经在走过我身边时埋怨着天气，我还安慰他不需担心，船长可以靠罗盘辨别方向的，甚至还将航海比喻成数学、ABC那样简单，但这遭到对方不屑的表示。他认为这时候的航海环境特别险恶。就在这时，远处响起了警告的钟声，似乎正在提醒双方避免相撞。那名男子顿时怒气冲冲，不停地咒骂对面的渡船，这让我很难理解。我看到船长在注视着外面的浓雾，而意外在此发生，两只船还是相撞了。那名男子要我赶紧抓住些东西，千万不能放手，周围顿时响起妇女的哀叫，我只记得很多人混乱一片，救生艇、救生圈都派上了用场。马丁尼号在下沉，我全身几乎都浸入冰冷的水中，我渐渐失去了知觉，在陷入昏迷前那一刹那似乎看到一个人对我吼骂，责备我为何不叫喊。scarcely know where to begin，though I sometimes facetiously placethe cause of it all to Charley Furuseth's credit.He kept a Isummer cottage inMill Valley，under the shadow of Mount Tamalpais，and never occupied it except when he loafed through the winter months and read Nietzsche and Schopenhauer to rest his brain.When summer came on，he elected to sweat out a hot and dusty existence in the city and to toil incessantly.Had it not been my custom to run up to see him every Saturday afternoon and to stop over till Monday morning，this particular January Monday morning would not have found me afloat on San Francisco Bay.

Not but that I was afloat in a safe craft，for the Martinez was a new ferry-steamer，making her fourth or fifth trip on the run between Sausalito and San Francisco.The danger lay in the heavy fog which blanketed the bay，and of which，as a landsman，I had little apprehension.In fact，I remember the placid exaltation with which I took up my position on the forward upper deck，directly beneath the pilothouse，and allowed the mystery of the fog to lay hold of my imagination.A fresh breeze was blowing，and for a time I was alone in the moist obscurity-yet not alone，for I was dimly conscious of the presence of the pilot，and of what I took to be the captain，in the glass house above my head.

I remember thinking how comfortable it was，this division of labor which made it unnecessary for me to study fogs，winds，tides，and navigation，in order to visit my friend who lived across an arm of the sea.It was good that men should be specialists，I mused.The peculiar knowledge of the pilot and captain sufficed for many thousands of people who knew no more of the sea and navigation than I knew.On the other hand，instead of having to devote my energy to the learning of a multitude of things，I concentrated it upon a few particular things，such as，for instance，the analysis of Poe's place in American literature-an essay of mine，by the way，in the current Atlantic.Coming aboard，as I passed through the cabin，I had noticed with greedy eyes a stout gentleman reading the Atlantic，which was open at my very essay.And there it was again，the division of labor，the special knowledge of the pilot and captain which permitted the stout gentleman to read my special knowledge on Poe while they carried him safely from Sausalito to San Francisco.

A red-faced man，slamming the cabin door behind him and stumping out on the deck，interrupted my reflections，though I made a mental note of thetopic for use in a projected essay which I had thought of calling“The Necessity for Freedom：A Plea for the Artist.”The red-faced man shot a glance up at the pilot-house，gazed around at the fog，stumped across the deck and back（he evidently had artificial legs），and stood still by my side，legs wide apart，and with an expression of keen enjoyment on his face.I was not wrong when I decided that his days had been spent on the sea.

“It's nasty weather like this here that turns heads gray before their time，”he said，with a nod toward the pilothouse.

“I had not thought there was any particular strain，”I answered.“It seems as simple as A，B，C.They know the direction by compass，the distance，and the speed.I should not call it anything more than mathematical certainty.”

“Strain！”he snorted.“Simple as A，B，C！Mathematical certainty！”

He seemed to brace himself up and lean backward against the air as he stared at me.“How about this here tide that's rushin'out through the Golden Gate？”he demanded，or bellowed，rather.“How fast is she ebbin'？What's the drift，eh？Listen to that，will you？A bell-buoy，and we're a-top of it！See’em alterin’the course！”

From out of the fog came the mournful tolling of a bell，and I could see the pilot turning the wheel with great rapidity.The bell，which had seemed straight ahead，was now sounding from the side.Our own whistle was blowing hoarsely，and from time to time the sound of other whistles came to us from out of the fog.

“That's a ferry-boat of some sort，”the newcomer said，indicating a whistle off to the right.“And there！D'ye.hear that？Blown by mouth.Some scow schooner，most likely.Better watch out，Mr.Schooner-man.An，I thought so.Now hell's a-poppin'for somebody！”

The unseen ferry-boat was blowing blast after blast，and the mouth-blown horn was tooting in terror-stricken fashion.

“And now they're payin'their respects to each other and tryin'to get clear，”the red-faced man went on，as the hurried whistling ceased.

His face was shining，his eyes flashing with excitement，as he translated into articulate language the speech of the horns and sirens.“That's a steam siren a-goin'it over there to the left.And you hear that fellow with a frog in histhroat-a steam schooner as near as I can judge，crawlin'in from the Heads against the tide.”

A shrill little whistle，piping as if gone mad，came from directly ahead and from very near at hand.Gongs sounded on the Martinez.Our paddle-wheels stopped，their pulsing beat died away，and then they started again.The shrill little whistle，like the chirping of a cricket amid the cries of great beasts，shot through the fog from more to the side and swiftly grew faint and fainter.I looked to my companion for enlightenment.

“One of them dare-devil launches，”he said.“I almost wish we'd sunk him，the little rip！They're the cause of more trouble.And what good are they？Any jackass gets aboard one and runs it from hell to breakfast，blowin'his whistle to beat the band and tellin'the rest of the world to look out for him，because he's comin’and can’t look out for himself！Because he’s comin’！And you’ve got to look out，too！Right of way！Common decency！They don’t know the meanin’of it！”

I felt quite amused at his unwarranted choler，and while he stumped indignantly up and down I fell to dwelling upon the romance of the fog.And romantic it certainly was-the fog，like the gray shadow of infinite mystery，brooding over the whirling speck of earth；and men，mere motes of light and sparkle，cursed with an insane relish for work，riding their steeds of wood and steel through the heart of the mystery，groping their way blindly through the Unseen，and clamoring and clanging in confident speech the while their hearts are heavy with incertitude and fear.

The voice of my companion brought me back to myself with a laugh.I too had been groping and floundering，the while I thought I rode clear-eyed through the mystery.

“Hello；somebody comin'our way，”he was saying.“And d'ye hear that？He's comin'fast.Walking right along.Guess he don't hear us yet.Wind’s in wrong direction.”

The fresh breeze was blowing right down upon us，and I could hear the whistle plainly，off to one side and a little ahead.

“Ferry-boat？”I asked.

He nodded，then added，“Or he wouldn't be keepin'up such a clip.”Hegave a short chuckle.“Taey're gettin'anxious up there.”

I glanced up.The captain had thrust his head and shoulders out of the pilot-house，and was staring intently into the fog as though by sheer force of will he could penetrate it.His face was anxious，as was the face of my companion，who had stumped over to the rail and was gazing with a like intentness in the direction of the invisible danger.

Then everything happened，and with inconceivable rapidity.The fog seemed to break away as though split by a wedge，and the bow of a steamboat emerged，trailing fogwreaths on either side like seaweed on the snout of Leviathan.I could see the pilot-house and a white-bearded man leaning partly out of it，on his elbows.He was clad in a blue uniform，and I remember noting how trim and quiet he was.His quietness，under the circumstances，was terrible.He accepted Destiny，marched hand in hand with it，and coolly measured the stroke.As he leaned there，he ran a calm and speculative eye over us，as though to determine the precise point of the collision，and took no notice whatever when our pilot，white with rage，shouted，“Now you've done it！”

On looking back，I realize that the remark was too obvious to make rejoinder necessary.

“Grab hold of something and hang on，”the red-faced man said to me.All his bluster had gone，and he seemed to have caught the contagion of preternatural calm.“And listen to the women scream，”he said grimly-almost bitterly，I thought，as though he had been through the experience before.

The vessels came together before I could follow his advice.We must have been struck squarely amidships，for I saw nothing，the strange steamboat having passed beyond my line of vision.The Martinez heeled over，sharply，and there was a crashing and rending of timber.I was thrown flat on the wet deck，and before I could scramble to my feet I heard the scream of the women.This it was，I am certain，-the most indescribable of blood-curdling sounds，-that threw me into a panic.I remembered the life-preservers stored in the cabin，but was met at the door and swept backward by a wild rush of men and women.What happened in the next few minutes I do not recollect，though I have a clear remembrance of pulling down life-preservers from the overhead racks，while the red-faced man fastened them about the bodies of an hysterical group ofwomen.This memory is as distinct and sharp as that of any picture I have seen.It is a picture，and I can see it now，-the jagged edges of the hole in the side of the cabin，through which the gray fog swirled and eddied；the empty upholstered seats，littered with all the evidences of sudden flight，such as packages，hand satchels，umbrellas，and wraps；the stout gentleman who had been reading my essay，encased in cork and canvas，the magazine still in his hand，and asking me with monotonous insistence if I thought there was any danger；the red-faced man，stumping gallantly around on his artificial legs and buckling lifepreservers on all comers；and finally，the screaming bedlam of women.

This it was，the screaming of the women，that most tried my nerves.It must have tried，too，the nerves of the red-faced man，for I have another picture which will never fade from my mind.The stout gentleman is stuffing the magazine into his overcoat pocket and looking on curiously.A tangled mass of women，with drawn，white faces and open mouths，is shrieking like a chorus of lost souls；and the redfaced man，his face now purplish with wrath，and with arms extended overhead as in the act of hurling thunderbolts，is shouting，“Shut up！Oh，shut up！”

I remember the scene impelled me to sudden laughter，and in the next instant I realized I was becoming hysterical myself；for these were women of my own kind，like my mother and sisters，with the fear of death upon them and unwilling to die.And I remember that the sounds they made reminded me of the squealing of pigs under the knife of the butcher，and I was struck with horror at the vividness of the analogy.These women，capable of the most sublime emotions，of the tenderest sympathies，were open-mouthed and screaming.They wanted to live，they were helpless，like rats in a trap，and they screamed.

The horror of it drove me out on deck.I was feeling sick and squeamish，and sat down on a bench.In a hazy way I saw and heard men rushing and shouting as they strove to lower the boats.It was just as I had read descriptions of such scenes in books.The tackles jammed.Nothing worked.One boat lowered away with the plugs out，filled with women and children and then with water，and capsized.Another boat had been lowered by one end，and still hungin the tackle by the other end，where it had been abandoned.Nothing was to be seen of the strange steamboat which had caused the disaster，though I heard men saying that she would undoubtedly send boats to our assistance.

I descended to the lower deck.The Martinez was sinking fast，for the water was very near.Numbers of the passengers were leaping overboard.Others，in the water，were clamoring to be taken aboard again.No one heeded them.A cry arose that we were sinking.I was seized by the consequent panic，and went over the side in a surge of bodies.How I went over I do not know，though I did know，and instantly，why those in the water were so desirous of getting back on the steamer.The water was cold-so cold that it was painful.The pang，as I plunged into it，was as quick and sharp as that of fire.It bit to the marrow.It was like the grip of death.I gasped with the anguish and shock of it，filling my lungs before the life-preserver popped me to the surface.The taste of the salt was strong in my mouth，and I was strangling with the acrid stuff in my throat and lungs.

But it was the cold that was most distressing.I felt that I could survive but a few minutes.People were struggling and floundering in the water about me.I could hear them crying out to one another.And I heard，also，the sound of oars，Evidently the strange steamboat had lowered its boats.As the time went by I marvelled that I was still alive.I had no sensation whatever in my lower limbs，while a chilling numbness was wrapping about my heart and creeping into it.Small waves，with spiteful foaming crests，continually broke over me and into my mouth，sending me off into more strangling paroxysms.

The noises grew indistinct，though I heard a final and despairing chorus of screams in the distance and knew this the Martinez had gone down.Later，-how much later I have no knowledge，-I came to myself with a start of fear.I was alone.I could hear no calls or cries-only the sound of the waves，made weirdly hollow and reverberant by the fog.A panic in a crowd，which partakes of a sort of community of interest，is not so terrible as a panic when one is by oneself；and such a panic I now suffered.Whither was I drifting？The red-faced man had said that the tide was ebbing through the Golden Gate.Was I，then，being carried out to sea？And the life-preserver in which I floated？Was it not liable to go to pieces at any moment？I had heard of such things beingmade of paper and hollow rushes which quickly became saturated and lost all buoyancy.And I could not swim a stroke.And I was alone，floating，apparently，in the midst of a gray primordial vastness.I confess that a madness seized me，that I shrieked aloud as the women had shrieked，and beat the water with my numb hands.

How long this lasted I have no conception，for a blankness intervened，of which I remember no more than one remembers of troubled and painful sleep.When I aroused，it was as after centuries of time；and I saw，almost above me and emerging from the fog，the bow of a vessel，and three triangular sails，each shrewdly lapping the other and filled with wind.Where the bow cut the water there was a great foaming and gurgling，and I seemed directly in its path.I tried to cry out，but was too exhausted.The bow plunged down，just missing me and sending a swash of water clear over my head.Then the long，black side of the vessel began slipping past，so near that I could have touched it with my hands.I tried to reach it，in a mad resolve to claw into the wood with my nails，but my arms were heavy and lifeless.Again I strove to call out，but made no sound.

The stern of the vessel shot by，dropping，as it did so，into a hollow between the waves；and I caught a glimpse of a man standing at the wheel，and of another man who seemed to be doing little else than smoke a cigar.I saw the smoke issuing from his lips as he slowly turned his head and glanced out over the water in my direction.It was a careless，unpremeditated glance，one of those haphazard things men do when they have no immediate call to do anything in particular，but act because they are alive and must do something.

But life and death were in that glance.I could see the vessel being swallowed up in the fog；I saw the back of the man at the wheel，and the head of the other man turning，slowly turning，as his gaze struck the water and casually lifted along it toward me.His face wore an absent expression，as of deep thought，and I became afraid that if his eyes did light upon me he would nevertheless not see me.

But his eyes did light upon me，and looked squarely into mine；and he did see me，for he sprang to the wheel，thrusting the other man aside，and whirled it round and round，hand over hand，at the same time shouting orders of some sort.The vessel seemed to go off at a tangent to its former course and leapt almostinstantly from view into the fog.

I felt myself slipping into unconsciousness，and tried with all the power of my will to fight above the suffocating blankness and darkness that was rising around me.A little later I heard the stroke of oars，growing nearer and nearer，and the calls of a man.When he was very near I heard him crying，in vexed fashion，“Why in hell don't you sing out？”This meant me，I thought，and then the blankness and darkness rose over me.第二章　Chapter 2导读

我昏迷了很久，感觉自己一直在飘荡，但是突然觉得呼吸困难，像被什么东西压在胸口一样；我艰难地睁开眼睛，发现有个人正在急救我，他用粗糙的手不停地摩擦我的胸口，都快磨出血了。见到我醒来，他停止了摩擦，并询问我怎么样，同时拿来了一杯热咖啡让我暖身。他自我介绍说是约翰生，当我提出想见船长的时候，他的表情很奇怪，但话还没说完便被厨子叫了进去。厨子拿来了几件布满油渍的衣服让我换上，他自己身上也脏兮兮、破破烂烂的，而且充满了各种气味。他叫汤玛斯·茂格立治，我向他道谢之后，看到船上的其他人几乎都没有注意到我，而是各自在忙着各自的事情。在不远处，我看到一个身材魁梧，表面来看充满野蛮、暴力的人，不停地踱来踱去。厨子探出头向我打手势，我明白这位大猩猩似的人物就是船长。我正准备前去和他谈判，突然地上躺着的人不停地发出痛苦的声音，而叫做海狼赖生的船长只是停下来看着他，看到那位不幸的人终于停止了挣扎，彻底离开了这世界之后，他竟然破口大骂，侮辱的字句滔滔不绝，我被这恐怖的场景吓住了。seemed swinging in a mighty rhythm through orbit vastness.Sparkling points of light spluttered and shot past me.They Iwere stars，I knew，and flaring comets，that peopled my flight among the suns.As I reached the limit of my swing and prepared to rush back on the counter swing，a great gongstruck and thundered.For an immeasurable period，lapped in the rippling of placid centuries，I enjoyed and pondered my tremendous flight.

But a change came over the face of the dream，for a dream I told myself it must be.My rhythm grew shorter and shorter.I was jerked from swing to counter swing with irritating haste.I could scarcely catch my breath，so fiercely was I impelled through the heavens.The gong thundered more frequently and more furiously.I grew to await it with a nameless dread.Then it seemed as though I were being dragged over rasping sands，white and hot in the sun.This gave place to a sense of intolerable anguish.My skin was scorching in the torment of fire.The gong clanged and knelled.The sparkling points of light flashed past me in an interminable stream，as though the whole sidereal system were dropping into the void.I gasped，caught my breath painfully，and opened my eyes.Two men were kneeling beside me，working over me.My mighty rhythm was the lift and forward plunge of a ship on the sea.The terrific gong was a frying-pan，hanging on the wall，that rattled and clattered with each leap of the ship.The rasping，scorching sands were a man's hard hands chafing my naked chest.I squirmed under the pain of it，and half lifted my head.My chest was raw and red，and I could see tiny blood globules starting through the torn and inflamed cuticle.

“That'll do，Yonson，”one of the men said，“Carn't yer see you've bloomin'well rubbed all the gent's skin orf？”

The man addressed as Yonson，a man of the heavy Scandinavian type，ceased chafing me，and arose awkwardly to his feet.The man who had spoken to him was clearly a Cockney，with the clean lines and weakly pretty，almost effeminate，face of the man who has absorbed the sound of Bow Bells with his mother's milk.A draggled muslin cap on his head and a dirty gunny-sack about his slim hips proclaimed him cook of the decidedly dirty ship's galley in which I found myself.

“An''ow yer feelin'now，sir？”he asked，with the subservient smirk which comes only of generations of tip-seeking ancestors.

For reply，I twisted weakly into a sitting posture，and was helped by Yonson to my feet.The rattle and bang of the frying-pan was grating horribly on my nerves.I could not collect my thoughts.Clutching the woodwork of thegalley for support，-and I confess the grease with which it was summed put my teeth on edge，-I reached across a hot cooking-range to the offending utensil，unhooked it，and wedged it securely into the coal-box.

The cook grinned at my exhibition of nerves，and thrust into my hand a steaming mug with an“'Ere，this'll do yer good.”It was a nauseous mess，-ship's coffee，-but the heat of it was revivifying.Between gulps of the molten stuff I glanced down at my raw and bleeding chest and turned to the Scandinavian.

“Thank you，Mr.Yonson，”I said；“but don't you think your measures were rather heroic？”

It was because he understood the reproof of my action，rather than of my words，that he held up his palm for inspection.It was remarkably calloused.I passed my hand over the horny projections，and my teeth went on edge once more from the horrible rasping sensation produced.

“My name is Johnson，not Yonson，”he said，in very good，though slow，English，with no more than a shade of accent to it.

There was mild protest in his pale blue eyes，and withal a timid frankness and manliness that quite won me to him.

“Thank you，Mr.Johnson，”I corrected，and reached out my hand for his.

He hesitated，awkward and bashful，shifted his weight from one leg to the other，than blunderingly gripped my hand in a hearty shake.

“Have you any dry clothes I may put on？”I asked the cook.

“Yes，sir，”he answered，with cheerful alacrity.“I'll run down an'tyke a look over my kit，if you've no objections，sir，to wearin'my things.”

He dived out of the galley door，or glided rather，with a swiftness and smoothness of gait that struck me as being not so much cat-like as oily.In fact，this oiliness，or greasiness，as I was later to learn，was probably the most salient expression of his personality.

“And where am I？”I asked Johnson，whom I took，and rightly，to be one of the sailors.“What vessel is this，and where is she bound？”

“Off the Farallones，heading about sou'west，”he answered，slowly and methodically，as though groping for his best English，and rigidly observing the order of my queries.“The schooner Ghost，bound seal-hunting to Japan.”

“And who is the captain？I must see him as soon as I am dressed.”

Johnson looked puzzled and embarrassed.He hesitated while he groped in his vocabulary and framed a complete answer.“The cap'n is Wolf Larsen，or so men call him.I never heard his other name.But you better speak soft with him.He is mad this morning.The mate-”

But he did not finish.The cook had glided in.

“Better sling yer'ook out of'ere，Yonson，”he said.“The old man'll be wantin'yer on deck，an'this ayn’t no d’y to fall foul of’im.”

Johnson turned obediently to the door，at the same time，over the cook's shoulder，favoring me with an amazingly solemn and portentous wink，as though to emphasize his interrupted remark and the need for me to be soft-spoken with the captain.

Hanging over the cook's arm was a loose and crumpled array of evil-looking and sour-smelling garments.

“They was put aw'y wet，sir，”he vouchsafed explanation.“But you'll'ave to make them do till I dry yours out by the fire.”

Clinging to the woodwork，staggering with the roll of the ship，and aided by the cook，I managed to slip into a rough woollen undershirt.On the instant my flesh was creeping and crawling from the harsh contact.He noticed my involuntary twitching and grimacing，and smirked：

“I only'ope yet don't ever'ave to get used to such as that in this life，'cos you've got a bloomin’soft skin，that you’ave，more like a lydy’s than any I know of.I was bloomin’well sure you was a gentleman as soon as I set eyes on yer.”

I had taken a dislike to him at first，and as he helped to dress me this dislike increased.There was something repulsive about his touch.I shrank from his hand；my flesh revolted.And between this and the smells arising from various pots boiling and bubbling on the galley fire，I was in haste to get out into the fresh air.Further，there was the need of seeing the captain about what arrangements could be made for getting me ashore.

A cheap cotton shirt，with frayed collar and a bosom discolored with what I took to be ancient blood-stains，was put on me amid a running and apologetic fire of comment.A pair of workman's brogans encased my feet，and fortrousers I was furnished with a pair of pale blue，washed-out overalls，one leg of which was fully ten inches shorter than the other.The abbreviated leg looked as though the devil had there clutched for the Cockney's soul and missed the shadow for the substance.

“And whom have I to thank for this kindness？”I asked，when I stood completely arrayed，a tiny boy's cap on my head，and for coat a dirty，striped cotton jacket which ended at the small of my back and the sleeves of which reached just below my elbows.

The cook drew himself up in a smugly humble fashion，a deprecating smirk on his face.Out of my experience with stewards on the Atlantic liners at the end of the voyage，I could have sworn he was waiting for his tip.From my fuller knowledge of the creature I now know that the posture was unconscious.An hereditary servility，no doubt，was responsible.

“Mugridge，sir，”he fawned，his effeminate features running into a greasy smile.“Thomas Mugridge，sir，an'at yet service.”

“All right，Thomas，”I said.“I shall not forget you-when my clothes are dry.”

A soft light suffused his face and his eyes glistened，as though somewhere in the deeps of his being his ancestors had quickened and stirred with dim memories of tips received in former lives.

“Thank you，sir，”he said，very gratefully and very humbly indeed.

Precisely in the way that the door slid back，he slid aside，and I stepped out on deck.I was still weak from my prolonged immersion.A puff of wind caught me，and I staggered across the moving deck to a corner of the cabin，to which I clung for support.The schooner，heeled over far out from the perpendicular，was bowing and plunging into the long Pacific roll，If she were heading southwest as Johnson had said，the wind，then，I calculated，was blowing nearly from the south.The fog was gone，and in its place the sun sparkled crisply on the surface of the water.I turned to the east，where I knew California must lie，but could see nothing save low-lying fog-banks-the same fog，doubtless，that had brought about the disaster to the Martinez and placed me in my present situation.To the north，and not far away，a group of naked rocks thrust above the sea，on one of which I could distinguish a lighthouse，In the southwest，andalmost in our course，I saw the pyramidal loom of some vessel's sails.

Having completed my survey of the horizon，I turned to my more immediate surroundings.My first thought was that a man who had come through a collision and rubbed shoulders with death merited more attention than I received.Beyond a sailor at the wheel who stared curiously across the top of the cabin，I attracted no notice whatever.

Everybody seemed interested in what was going on amidships.There，on a hatch，a large man was lying on his back.He was fully clothed，though his shirt was ripped open in front.Nothing was to be seen of his chest，however，for it was covered with a mass of black hair，in appearance like the furry coat of a dog.His face and neck were hidden beneath a black beard，intershot with gray，which would have been stiff and bushy had it not been limp and draggled and dripping with water.His eyes were closed，and he was apparently unconscious；but his mouth was wide open，his breast heaving as though from suffocation as he labored noisily for breath.A sailor，from time to time and quite methodically，as a matter of routine，dropped a canvas bucket into the ocean at the end of a rope，hauled it in hand under hand，and sluiced its contents over the prostrate man.

Pacing back and forth the length of the hatchway，and savagely chewing the end of a cigar，was the man whose casual glance had rescued me from the sea.His height was probably five feet ten inches，or ten and a half；but my first impression，or feel of the man，was not of this，but of his strength.And yet，while he was of massive build，with broad shoulders and deep chest，I could not characterize his strength as massive.It was what might be termed a sinewy，knotty strength，of the kind we ascribe to lean and wiry men，but which，in him，because of his heavy build，partook more of the enlarged gorilla order.Not that in appearance he seemed in the least gorilla-like.What I am striving to express is this strength itself，more as a thing apart from his physical semblance.It was a strength we are wont to associate with things primitive，with wild animals，and the creatures we imagine our tree-dwelling prototypes to have been-a strength savage，ferocious，alive in itself，the essence of life in that it is the potency of motion，the elemental stuff itself out of which the many forms of life have been molded；in short，that which writhes in the body of a snake whenthe head is cut off，and the snake，as a snake，is dead，or which lingers in a shapeless lump of turtle-meat and recoils and quivers from the prod of a finger.

Such was the impression of strength I gathered from this man who paced up and down.He was firmly planted on his legs；his feet struck the deck squarely and with surety；every movement of a muscle，from the heave of the shoulders to the tightening of the lips about the cigar，was decisive，and seemed to come out of a strength that was excessive and overwhelming.In fact，though this strength pervaded every action of his，it seemed but the advertisement of a greater strength that lurked within，that lay dormant and no more than stirred from time to time，but which might arouse，at any moment，terrible and compelling，like the rage of a lion or the wrath of a storm.

The cook stuck his head out of the galley door and grinned encouragingly at me，at the same time jerking his thumb in the direction of the man who paced up and down by the hatchway.Thus I was given to understand that he was the captain，the“Old Man，”in the cook's vernacular，the individual whom I must interview and put to the trouble of somehow getting me ashore.I had half started forward，to get over with what I was certain would be a stormy five minutes，when a more violent suffocating paroxysm seized the unfortunate person who was lying on his back.He wrenched and writhed about convulsively.The chin，with the damp black beard，pointed higher in the air as the back muscles stiffened and the chest swelled in an unconscious and instinctive effort to get more air.Under the whiskers，and all unseen，I knew that the skin was taking on a purplish hue.

The captain，or Wolf Larsen，as men called him，ceased pacing and gazed down at the dying man.So fierce had this final struggle become that the sailor paused in the act of flinging more water over him and stared curiously，the canvas bucket partly tilted and dripping its contents to the deck.The dying man beat a tattoo on the hatch with his heels，straightened out his legs，and stiffened in one great tense effort，and rolled his head from side to side.Then the muscles relaxed，the head stopped rolling，and a sigh，as of profound relief，floated upward from his lips.The jaw dropped，the upper lip lifted，and two rows of tobacco-discolored teeth appeared.It seemed as though his features had frozen into a diabolical grin at the world he had left and outwitted.

Then a most surprising thing occurred.The captain broke loose upon the dead man like a thunderclap.Oaths rolled from his lips in a continuous stream.And they were not namby-pamby oaths，or mere expressions of indecency.Each word was a blasphemy，and there were many words.They crisped and crackled like electric sparks，I had never heard anything like it in my life，nor could I have conceived it possible.With a turn for literary expression myself，and a penchant for forcible figures and phrases，I appreciated，as no other listener，I dare say，the peculiar vividness and strength and absolute blasphemy of his metaphors.The cause of it all，as near as I could make out，was that the man，who was mate，had gone on a debauch before leaving San Francisco，and then had the poor taste to die at the beginning of the voyage and leave Wolf Larsen short-handed.

It should be unnecessary to state，at leas to my friends，that I was shocked.Oaths and vile language of any sort had always been repellent to me.I felt a wilting sensation，a sinking at the heart，and，I might just as well say，a giddiness.To me，death had always been invested with solemnity and dignity.It had been peaceful in its occurrence，sacred in its ceremonial.But death in its more sordid and terrible as pects was a thing with which I had been unacquainted till now.As I say，while I appreciated the power of the terrific denunciation that swept out of Wolf Larsen's mouth，I was inexpressibly shocked.The scorching torrent was enough to wither the face of the corpse.I should not have been surprised if the wet black beard had frizzled and curled and flared up in smoke and flame.But the dead man was unconcerned.He continued to grin with a sardonic humor，with a cynical mockery and defiance.He was master of the situation.第三章　Chapter 3导读

从他的咒骂中，我大概了解到死去的那位是刚上船不久的大副，海浪赖生失去了左右手。他吩咐一个叫乔汉生的水手把死者用旧帆布裹起来，在找不到《圣经》的情况下，众人被要求在心里举行海葬礼即可。船长突然转过身质问我是不是传教士，这引起了周围人的嘲笑，我走到他身边，看清楚了他的长相：他的五官异常漂亮，眼睛带着变幻莫测的灰色，强健的身躯加上这样的眼神，任何人都不得不承认他的诱惑力之强。在我否认自己是传教士之后，他的脸上充满了轻蔑的笑容，他抓着我的手，嘲笑我的无能。我提出要上岸的请求，他没有同意，甚至要求我留在船上做茶房的工作。他叫来了一个在茶房工作、名叫李区的孩子，对那孩子一阵嘲讽之后，他吩咐将乔汉生提为大副，而李区改为水手。李区似乎很不满意，站在原地不动，这时海狼赖生突然跳过足足六英尺的距离，一拳直接打在那孩子的腹部，小小的身躯被打飞，摔倒在甲板上痛苦地打着滚。

我看到不远处驶来一艘帆船，我要求海狼赖生打旗语招呼，让我上岸。他没理睬我，我只好自己朝着那艘船叫嚷，但是在海狼赖生开玩笑地答话之后，那艘船的人只是一笑而过。我彻底绝望了，整个人靠着栏杆瘫软了下来。我看到不远处李区正踉跄地站起身，在海狼赖生的威胁下，他同意搬到前舱；同样迫于暴力威胁，我同意担任茶房的工作。我告诉海狼赖生自己叫亨普莱·凡·卫登，仅此而已，从此我不得不开始了自己被奴役的人生。olf larsen ceased swearing as suddenly as he had begun.Herelighted his cigar and glanced around.His eyes Wchanced upon the cook.

“Well，Cooky？”he began，with a suaveness that was cold and of the temper of steel.

“Yes，sir，”the cook eagerly interpolated，with appeasing and apologetic servility.

“Don't you think you've stretched that neck of yours just about enough？It's unhealthy，you know.The mate's gone，so I can't afford to lose you too.You must be very，very careful of your health，Cooky.Understand？”

His last word，in striking contrast with the smoothness of his previous utterance，snapped like the lash of a whip.The cook quailed under it.

“Yes，sir，”was the meek reply，as the offending head disappeared into the galley.

At.this sweeping rebuke，which the cook had only pointed，the rest of the crew became uninterested and fell to work at one task or another.A number of men，however，who were lounging about a companionway between the galley and the hatch，and who did not seem to be sailors，continued talking in low tones with one another.These，I afterward learned，were the hunters，the men who shot the seals，and a very superior breed to common sailor folk.

“Johansen！”Wolf Larsen called out.A sailor stepped forward obediently.“Get your palm and needle and sew the beggar up.You'll find some old canvas in the sail-locker.Make it do.”

“What'll I put on his feet，sir？”the man asked，after the customary“Ay，ay，sir.”

“We'll see to that，”Wolf Larsen answered，and elevated his voice in a call of“Cooky！”

Thomas Mugridge popped out of his galley like a jackin-the-box.

“Go below and fill a sack with coal.”

“Any of you fellows got a Bible or prayer-book？”was the captain's next demand，this time of the hunters lounging about the companionway.

They shook their heads，and some one made a jocular remark which I did not catch，but which raised a general laugh.

Wolf Larsen made the same demand of the sailors.Bibles and prayer-books seemed scarce articles，but one of the men volunteered to pursue the quest amongst the watch below，returning in a minute with the information that there was none.

The captain shrugged his shoulders.“Then we'll drop him over without any palavering，unless our clerical-looking castaway has the burial service at sea by heart.”

By this time he had swung fully around and was facing me.

“You're a preacher，aren't you？”he asked.

The hunters，-there were six of them，-to a man，turned and regarded me.I was painfully aware of my likeness to a scarecrow.A laugh went up at my appearance，-a laugh that was not lessened or softened by the dead man stretched and grinning on the deck before us；a laugh that was as rough and harsh and frank as the sea itself；that arose out of coarse feelings and blunted sensibilities，from natures that knew neither courtesy nor gentleness.

Wolf Larsen did not laugh，though his gray eyes lighted with a slight glint of amusement；and in that moment，having stepped forward quite close to him，I received my first impression of the man himself，of the man as apart from his body and from the torrent of blasphemy I had heard him spew forth.The face，with large features and strong lines，of the square order，yet well filled out，was apparently massive at first sight；but again，as with the body，the massiveness seemed to vanish and a conviction to grow of a tremendous and excessive mental or spiritual strength that lay behind，sleeping in the deeps of his being.The jaw，the chin，the brow rising to a goodly height and swelling heavily above the eyes，-these，while strong in themselves，unusually strong，seemed to speak an immense vigor or virility of spirit that lay behind and beyond and out of sight.There was no sounding such a spirit，no measuring，no determining of metes and bounds，nor neatly classifying in some pigeonhole with others of similar type.

The eyes-and it was my destiny to know them well-were large and handsome，wide apart as the true artist's are wide，sheltering under a heavy brow and arched over by thick black eyebrows.The eyes themselves were ofthat baffling protean gray which is never twice the same；which runs through many shades and colorings like interknot silk in sunshine；which is gray，dark and light，and greenish gray，and sometimes of the clear azure of the deep sea.They were eyes that masked the soul with a thousand guises，and that sometimes opened，at rare moments，and allowed it to rush up as though it were about to fare forth nakedly into the world on some wonderful adventure，-eyes that could brood with the hopeless sombreness of leaden skies；that could snap and crackle points of fire like those which sparkle from a whirling sword；that could grow chill as an arctic landscape，and yet again，that could warm and soften and be all a-dance with love-lights，intense and masculine，luring and compelling，which at the same time fascinate and dominate women till they surrender in a gladness of joy and of relief and sacrifice.

But to return.I told him that，unhappily for the burial service，I was not a preacher，when he sharply demanded：

“What do you do for a living？”

I confess I had never had such a question asked me before，nor had I ever canvassed it.I was quite taken aback，and before I could find myself had sillily stammered，“I-I am a gentleman.”

His lip curled in a swift sneer.

“I have worked，I do work，”I cried impetuously，as though he were my judge and I required vindication，and at the same time very much aware of my arrant idiocy in discussing the subject at all.

“For your living？”

There was something so imperative and masterful about him that I was quite beside myself-“rattled，”as Furuseth would have termed it，like a quaking child before a stern schoolmaster.

“Who feeds you？”was his next question.

“I have an income，”I answered stoutly，and could have bitten my tongue the next instant.“All of which，you will pardon my observing，has nothing whatsoever to do with what I wish to see you about.”

But he disregarded my protest.

“Who earned it？Eh？I thought so.Your father.You stand on dead men'slegs.You've never had any of your own.You couldn't walk alone between two sunrises and hustle the meat for your belly for three meals.Let me see your hand.”

His tremendous，dormant strength must have stirred，swiftly and accurately，or I must have slept a moment，for before I knew it be had stepped two paces forward，gripped my right hand in his，and held it up for inspection.I tried to withdraw it，but his fingers tightened，without visible effort，till I thought mine would be crushed.It is hard to maintain one's dignity under such circumstances.I could not squirm or struggle like a schoolboy.Nor could I attack such a creature who had but to twist my arm to break it.Nothing remained but to stand still and accept the indignity.I had time to notice that the pockets of the dead man had been emptied on the deck，and that his body and his grin had been wrapped from view in canvas，the folds of which the sailor，Johansen，was sewing together with coarse white twine，shoving the needle through with a leather contrivance fitted on the palm of his hand.

Wolf Larsen dropped my hand with a flirt of disdain.

“Dead men's hands have kept it soft.Good for little else than dishwashing and scullion work.”

“I wish to be put ashore，”I said firmly，for I now had myself in control.“I shall pay you whatever you judge your delay and trouble to be worth.”

He looked at me curiously.Mockery shone in his eyes.

“I have a counter proposition to make，and for the good of your soul.My mate's gone，and there'll be a lot of promotion.A sailor comes aft to take mate's place，cabin-boy goes for'ard to take sailor's place，and you take the cabin-boy’s place，sign the articles for the cruise，twenty dollars per month and found.Now what do you say？And mind you，it’s for your own soul’s sake.It will be the making of you.You might learn in time to stand on your own legs and perhaps to toddle along a bit.”

But I took no notice.The sails of the vessel I had seen off to the southwest had grown larger and plainer.They were of the same schooner-rig as the Ghost，though the hull itself，I coulo 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，haddisappeared.The sea had turned a dull leaden gray 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 companionway 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.“Howold 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.“Johansem 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 for ward.

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 boyglowered 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 fan 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 Iexpected 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 on my lips.The wind puffed strongly，and the Ghost heeled far over，burying her lee rail.I could hear the water rushing down upon the deck.

When I turned around，a moment later，I saw the cabin-boy staggering to his feet.His face was ghastly white，twitching with suppressed pain.He looked very sick.

“Well，Leach，are you going for'ard？”Wolf Larsen asked.

“Yes，sir，”came the answer of a spirit cowed.

“And you？”I was asked.

“I'll give you a thousand-”I began，but was interrupted.

“Stow that！Are you going to take up your duties as cabin-boy？Or do I have to take you in hand？”

What was I to do？To be brutally beaten，to be killed，perhaps，would not help my case.I looked steadily into the cruel gray eyes.They might have beengranite for all the light and warmth of a human soul they contained.One may see the soul stir in some men's eyes，but his were bleak，and cold，and gray as the sea itself.

“Well？”

“Yes，”I said.

“Say‘yes，sir，'”

“Yes，sir，”I corrected.

“What is your name？”

“Van Weyden，sir.”

“First name？”

“Humphrey，sir；Humphrey Van Weyden.”

“Age？”

“Thirty-five，sir.”

“That'll do.Go to the cook and learn your duties.”

And thus it was that I passed into a state of involuntary servitude to Wolf Larsen.He was stronger than I，that was all.But it was very unreal at the time.It is no less unreal now that I look back upon it.It will always be to me a monstrous，inconceivable thing，a horrible nightmare.

“Hold on，don't go yet.”

I stopped obediently in my walk toward the galley.

“Johansen，call all hands.Now that we've everything cleaned up，we'll have the funeral and get the decks cleared of useless lumber.”

While Johansen was summoning the watch below，a couple of sailors，under the captain's direction，laid the canvasswathed corpse upon a hatch-cover.On either side the deck，against the rail and bottoms up，were lashed a number of small boats.Several men picked up the hatch-cover with its ghastly freight，carried it to the lee side，and rested it on the boats，the feet pointing overboard.To the feet was attached the sack of coal which the cook had fetched.

I had always conceived a burial at sea to be a very solemn and aweinspiring event，but I was quickly disillusioned，by this burial at any rate.One of the hunters，a little darkeyed man whom his mates called“Smoke，”was telling stories，liberally intersprinkled with oaths and obscenities；and every minute or so the group of hunters gave mouth to a laughter that sounded to melike a wolf-chorus or the barking of hellhounds.The sailors trooped noisily aft，some of the watch below rubbing the sleep from their eyes，and talked in low tones together.There was an ominous and worried expression on their faces.It was evident that they did not like the outlook of a voyage under such a captain and begun so inauspiciously.From time to time they stole glances at Wolf Larsen，and I could see that they were apprehensive of the man.

He stepped up to the hatch-cover，and all caps came off.I ran my eyes over them-twenty men all told，twenty-two including the man at the wheel and myself.I was pardonably curious in my survey，for it appeared my fate to be pent up with them on this miniature floating world for I knew not how many weeks or months.The sailors，in the main，were English and Scandinavian，and their faces seemed of the heavy，stolid order.The hunters，on the other hand，had stronger and more diversified faces，with hard lines and the marks of the free play of passions.Strange to say，and I noted it at once，Wolf Larsen's features showed no such evil stamp.There seemed nothing vicious in them.True，there were lines，but they were the lines of decision and firmness.It seemed，rather，a frank and open countenance，which frankness or openness was enhanced by the fact that he was smoothshaven.I could hardly believe，-until the next incident occurred，-that it was the face of a man who could behave as he had behaved to the cabin-boy.

At this moment，as he opened his mouth to speak，puff after puff struck the schooner and pressed her side under.The wind shrieked a wild song through the rigging.Some of the hunters glanced anxiously aloft.The lee rail，where the dead man lay，was buried in the sea，and as the schooner lifted and righted the water swept across the deck，wetting us above our shoe-tops.A shower of rain drove down upon us，each drop stinging like a hailstone.As it passed，Wolf Larsen began to speak，the bare-headed men swaying in unison to the heave and lunge of the deck.

“I only remember one part of the service，”he said，“and that is，‘And the body shall be cast into the sea.'So cast it in.”

He ceased speaking.The men holding the hatch-cover seemed perplexed，puzzled no doubt by the briefness of the ceremony.He burst upon them in a fury.

“Lift up that end there，damn you！What the hell's the matter with you？”

They elevated the end of the hatch-cover with pitiful haste，and，like a dog flung overside，the dead man slid feet first into the sea.The coal at his feet dragged him down.He was gone.

“Johansen，”Wolf Larsen said briskly to the new mate，“keep all hands on deck now they're here.Get in the topsails and jibs and make a good job of it.We're in for a sou'easter.Better reef the jib and mainsail，too，while you're about it.”

In a moment the decks were in commotion，Johansen bellowing orders and the men pulling or letting go ropes of various sorts-all naturally confusing to a landsman such as myself.But it was the heartlessness of it that especially struck me.The dead man was an episode that was past，an incident that was dropped，in a canvas covering with a sack of coal，while the ship sped along and her work went on.Nobody had been affected.The hunters were laughing at a fresh story of Smoke's；the men pulling and hauling，and two of them climbing aloft；Wolf Larsen was studying the clouding sky to windward；and the dead man，dying obscenely，buried sordidly，and sinking down，down-Then it was that the cruelty of the sea，its relentlessness and awfulness，rushed upon me.Life had become cheap and tawdry，a beastly and inarticulate thing，a soulless stirring of the ooze and slime.I held on to the weather rail，close by the shrouds，and gazed out across the desolate foaming waves to the low-lying fog-banks that hid San Francisco and the California coast.Rain-squalls were driving in between，and I could scarcely see the fog.And this strange vessel，with its terrible men，pressed under by wind and sea and ever leaping up and out，was heading away into the southwest，into the great and lonely Pacific expanse.第四章　Chapter 4导读

我现在已经成为了一个平庸、不值钱的茶房，在这里受尽了屈辱和伤痛。之前的那个厨子——卑微可怜的茂格立治也开始变得高傲，不停地指使我干这干那。在上船之前，我完全不会干厨房的活，但没有人同情我，一切都只能靠自己去解决。

第一天我便受尽了折磨，在茂格立治警告我不得将面包碰到水时，一阵大浪扑来，我没有任何经验，惊呆了，站在那里，又被裹在水里被随处乱冲，右膝被猛烈撞击，但他们依旧对我叫嚷着不能丢掉茶壶，丝毫不关心我的伤痛。这一次受伤让我痛苦了好几个月，海狼赖生给我取了“亨甫”这个名字，从此以后船上的人几乎都这样叫我，我也渐渐习惯了这个名字。

晚上我坐在床上检查着自己的伤势，周围的六个猎人正聚在一起，抽着烟，讨论着小海豹是否生下来就会游泳。他们之间的争吵、那些幼稚的言语和推理，让我不得不感叹这些人在知识方面所知甚少。躺在床上，我思考着自己的遭遇，堂堂一个学者竟然会沦落到这个地步，而此时母亲和姐妹们一定正在为我的失踪而伤心难过，报纸头条一定都是关于我的消息，大家都在为我哀悼，而我却躺在周围充满污秽言语、嘈杂不堪的环境中。hat happened to me next on the sealing-schooner Ghost，as I stroveto fit into my new environment，are matters of humiliation Wand pain.The cook，who was called“the doctor”by the crew，“Tommy”by the hunters，and“Cooky”by Wolf Larsen，was a changed person.The difference worked in my status brought about a corresponding difference in treatment from him.Servile and fawning as he had been before，he was now as domineering and bellicose.In truth，I was no longer the fine gentleman with a skin soft as a“lydy's，”but only an ordinary and very worthless cabin-boy.

He absurdly insisted upon my addressing him as Mr.Mugridge，and his behavior and carriage were insufferable as he showed me my duties.Besides my work in the cabin，with its four small staterooms，I was supposed to be his assistant in the galley，and my colossal ignorance concerning such things as peeling potatoes or washing greasy pots was a source of unending and sarcastic wonder to him.He refused to take into consideration what I was，or，rather，what my life and the things I was accustomed to had been.This was part of the attitude he chose to adopt toward me；and I confess，ere the day was done，that I hated him with more lively feelings than I had ever hated any one in my life before.

This first day was made more difficult for me from the fact that the Ghost，under close reefs（terms such as these I did not learn till later），was plunging through what Mr.Mugridge called an“'owlin'sou'easter.”At half-past five，under his directions，I set the table in the cabin，with rough-weather trays in place，and then carried the tea and cooked food down from the galley.In this connection I cannot forbear relating my first experience with a boarding sea.

“Look sharp or you'll get doused，”was Mr.Mugridge's parting injunction，as I left the galley with a big tea-pot in one hand，and in the hollow of the other arm several loaves of fresh-baked bread.One of the hunters，a tall，loose-jointed chap named Henderson，was going aft at the time from the steerage，（the name the hunters facetiously gave their midships sleeping quarters），to the cabin.Wolf Larsen was on the poop，smoking his everlasting cigar.

“‘Ere she comes.Sling yet'ook！”the cook cried.

I stopped，for I did not know what was coming，and saw the galley door slide shut with a bang.Then I saw Henderson leaping like a madman for the main rigging，up which he shot，on the inside，till he was many feet higher thanmy head.Also I saw a great wave，curling and foaming，poised far above the rail.I was directly under it.My mind did not work quickly，everything was so new and strange.I grasped that I was in danger，but that was all.I stood still，in trepidation.Then Wolf Larsen shouted from the poop：—

“Grab hold something，you-you Hump！”

But it was too late.I sprang toward the rigging，to which I might have clung，and was met by the descending wall of water.What happened after that was very confusing.I was beneath the water，suffocating and drowning.My feet were out from under me，and I was turning over and over and being swept along I knew not where.Several times I collided against hard objects，once striking my right knee a terrible blow.Then the flood seemed suddenly to subside and I was breathing the good air again.I had been swept against the galley and around the steerage companionway from the weather side into the lee scuppers.The pain from my hurt knee was agonizing.I could not put my weight on it，or，at least，I thought I could not put my weight on it；and I felt sure the leg was broken.But the cook was after me，shouting through the lee galley door：

“'Ere，you！Don't tyke all night about it！Where's the pot？Lost overboard？Serve you bloody well right if yer neck was broke！”

I managed to struggle to my feet.The great tea-pot was still in my hand.I limped to the galley and handed it to him.But he was consuming with indignation，real or feigned.

“Gawd blime me if you ayn't a slob.Wot're you good for anyw'y，I'd like to know？Eh？Wot're you good for anyw’y？Cawn’t even carry a bit of tea aft without losin’it.Now I’ll’ave to boil some more.“An'wot're you snifflin'about？”he burst out at me，with renewed rage.“'Cos you've’urt yer pore little leg，pore little mamma’s darlin’。”

I was not sniffling，though my face might well have been drawn and twitching from the pain.But I called up all my resolution，set my teeth，and hobbled back and forth from galley to cabin and cabin to galley without further mishap.Two things I had acquired by my accident：an injured kneecap that went undressed and from which I suffered for weary months，and the name of“Hump，”which Wolf Larsen had called me from the poop.Thereafter，fore andaft，I was known by no other name，until the term became a part of my thought processes and I identified it with myself，thought of myself as Hump，as though Hump were I and had always been I.

It was no easy task，waiting on the cabin table，where sat Wolf Larsen，Johansen，and the six hunters.The cabin was small，to begin with，and to move around，as I was compelled to，was not made easier by the schooner's violent pitching and wallowing.But what struck me most forcibly was the total lack of sympathy on the part of the men whom I served.I could feel my knee through my clothes，swelling，and swelling，and I was sick and faint from the pain of it.I could catch glimpses of my face，white and ghastly，distorted with pain，in the cabin mirror.All the men must have seen my condition，but not one spoke or took notice of me，till I was almost grateful to Wolf Larsen，later on，（I was washing the dishes），when he said：

“Don't let a little thing like that bother you.You'll get used to such things in time.It may cripple you some，but all the same you'll be learning to walk.

“That's what you call a paradox，isn't it？”he added.

He seemed pleased when I nodded my head with the customary“Yes，sir.”

“I suppose you know a bit about literary things？Eh？Good.I'll have sometalks with you sometime.”

And then，taking no further account of me，he turned his back and went up on deck.

That night，when I had finished an endless amount of work，I was sent to sleep in the steerage，where I made up a spare bunk.I was glad to get out of the detestable presence of the cook and to be off my feet.To my surprise，my clothes had dried on me and there seemed no indications of catching cold，either from the last soaking or from the prolonged soaking from the foundering of the Martinez.Under ordinary circumstances，after all that I had undergone，I should have been fit for bed and a trained nurse.

But my knee was bothering me terribly.As well as I could make out，the kneecap seemed turned up on edge in the midst of the swelling.As I sat in my bunk examining it，（the six hunters were all in the steerage，smoking and talking in loud voices），Henderson took a passing glance at it.

“Looks nasty，”he commented.“Tie a rag around it and it'll be all right.”

That was all；and on the land I would have been lying on the broad of my back，with a surgeon attending on me，and with strict injunctions to do nothing but rest.But I must do these men justice.Callous as they were to my suffering，they were equally callous to their own when anything befell them.And this was due，I believe，first，to habit；and second，to the fact that they were less sensitively organized.I really believe that a finely organized，high-strung man would suffer twice and thrice as much as they from a like injury.

Tired as I was，—exhausted，in fact，—I was prevented from sleeping by the pain in my knee.It was all I could do to keep from groaning aloud.At home I should undoubtedly have given vent to my anguish；but this new and elemental environment seemed to call for a savage repression.Like the savage，the attitude of these men was stoical in great things，childish in little things.I remember，later in the voyage，seeing Kerfoot，another of the hunters，lose a finger by having it smashed to a jelly；and he did not even murmur or change the expression on his face.Yet I have seen the same man，time and again，fly into the most outrageous passion over a trifle.

He was doing it now，vociferating，bellowing，waving his arms，and cursing like a fiend，and all because of a disagreement with another hunter as to whether a seal pup knew instinctively how to swim.He held that it did，that it could swim the moment it was born.The other hunter，Latimer，a lean，Yankee-looking fellow with shrewd，narrow-slitted eyes，held otherwise，held that the seal pup was born on the land for no other reason than that it could not swim，that its mother was compelled to teach it to swim as birds were compelled to teach their nestlings how to fly.

For the most part，the remaining four hunters leaned on the table or lay in their bunks and left the discussion to the two antagonists.But they were supremely interested，for every little while they ardently took sides，and sometimes all were talking at once，till their voices surged back and forth in waves of sound like mimic thunder-rolls in the confined space.Childish and immaterial as the topic was，the quality of their reasoning was still more childish and immaterial.In truth，there was very little reasoning or none at all.Their method was one of assertion，assumption，and denunciation.They proved that a seal pup could swim or not swim at birth by stating the proposition verybellicosely and then following it up with an attack on the opposing man's judgment，common sense，nationality，or past history.Rebuttal was precisely similar.I have related this in order to show the mental caliber of the men with whom I was thrown in contact.Intellectually they were children，inhabiting the physical forms of men.

And they smoked，incessantly smoked，using a coarse，cheap，and offensive-smelling tobacco.The air was thick and murky with the smoke of it；and this，combined with the violent movement of the ship as she struggled through the storm，would surely have made me seasick had I been a victim to that malady.As it was，it made me quite squeamish，though this nausea might have been due to the pain of my leg and exhaustion.

As I lay there thinking，I naturally dwelt upon myself and my situation.It was unparalleled，undreamed-of，that I，Humphrey Van Weyden，a scholar and a dilettante，if you please，in things artistic and literary，should be lying here on a Bering Sea seal-hunting schooner.Cabin-boy！I had never done any hard manual labor，or scullion labor，in my life.I had lived a placid，uneventful，sedentary existence all my days-the life of a scholar and a recluse on an assured and comfortable income.Violent life and athletic sports had never appealed to me.I had always been a book-worm；so my sisters and father had called me during my childhood.I had gone camping but once in my life，and then I left the party almost at its start and returned to the comforts and conveniences of a roof.And here I was，with dreary and endless vistas before me of table-setting，potato-peeling，and dishwashing.And I was not strong.The doctors had always said that I had a remarkable constitution，but I had never developed it or my body through exercise.My muscles were small and soft，like a woman's，or so the doctors had said time and again in the course of their attempts to persuade me to go in for physical culture fads.But I had preferred to use my head，rather than my body；and here I was，in no fit condition for the rough life in prospect.

These are merely a few of the things that went through my mind，and are related for the sake of vindicating myself in advance in the weak and helpless r1e I was destined to play.But I thought，also，of my mother and sisters，and pictured their grief.I was among the missing dead of the Martinez disaster，anunrecovered body.I could see the headlines in the papers；the fellows at the University Club and the Bibelot shaking their heads and saying，“Poor chap！”And I could see Charley Furuseth，as I had said good-by eto him that morning，lounging in a dressing-gown on the be-pillowed window couch and delivering himself of oracular and pessimistic epigrams.

And all the while，rolling，plunging，climbing the moving mountains and falling and wallowing in the foaming valleys，the schooner Ghost was fighting her way farther and farther into the heart of the Pacific-and I was on her.I could hear the wind above.It came to my ears as a muffled roar.Now and again feet stamped overhead.An endless creaking was going on all about me，the woodwork and the fittings groaning and squeaking and complaining in a thousand keys.The hunters were still arguing and roaring like some semi-human amphibious breed.The air was filled with oaths and indecent expressions.I could see their faces，flushed and angry，the brutality distorted and emphasized by the sickly yellow of the sea-lamps which rocked back and forth with the ship.Through the dim smoke-haze the bunks looked like the sleeping dens of animals in a menagerie.Oilskins and seaboots were hanging from the walls，and here and there rifles and shotguns rested securely in the racks.It was a seafitting for the buccaneers and pirates of bygone years.My imagination ran riot，and still I could not sleep.And it was a long，long night，weary and dreary and long.第五章　Chapter 5导读

第二天，大副乔汉生好像因为夜里不停地说梦话吵得海狼赖生无法睡觉而被赶出了房舱，他也回到了统舱。我一夜都没睡着，五点半就被要求起床。我拿回了头一天烘干的衣服，发现口袋里的钱已经遭窃。当我把这一切告诉厨子时，他发疯似的揍了我一拳，我从厨房里逃窜出来，他并没有跟着追出来，只是不停地叫骂着。我重新回到厨房开始工作，准备好早饭并等到大家都吃完之后，我又犯了大错——我拿着煤灰准备去倒掉，走到上风处，我看到约翰生朝我点了点头，我还以为是在和我打招呼，后来才知道是提醒我把煤灰拿到下风方。结果我把煤灰迎风倒出去，害得海狼赖生和乔汉生身上都沾满了煤灰，我也被海狼赖生一脚踢晕。

后来我又发现了一件奇怪的事情，在整理海狼赖生的房间时，我发现他的床头竟然放着满满一架书籍，而且都是一些代表人物的著作。我实在无法将海狼赖生和这些文学名著联系起来，本以为那只是摆设，可是当我翻开一本发现书中做满阅读记号时，我突然觉得海狼赖生充满了神奇，我认为在他的天性里还是会有很人性的一面的，于是决定告诉他我的钱被偷的事情。他听完之后没有为我抱不平，反而责备我把诱惑放在伙伴面前。他和我谈起了“永生”这个话题，他认为生命像是酵母，总是弱肉强食，梦想并不能带给人们赖以生存的物质保证。

ut my first night in the hunters'steerage was also my last.Next day

BJohansen，the new mate，was routed from the cabin by Wolf B

Larsen，and sent into the steerage to sleep thereafter，while I took possession of the tiny cabin stateroom，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 wideeyed 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 yet 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’ansome，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 youwhat-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 southwestinto that portion of the sea where he expected to pick up with the northeast 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 ofhim，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 lookout.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 forever.”

“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 arm 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 jellyfish 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 stand-still.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 favorable place for your kind of piggishness.It is awhim 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 forever.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 cursing some men amidships.第六章　Chapter 6导读“魔鬼号”现在正在平静的海面上行驶着，海狼赖生在船尾不停地来回巡视。甲板上水手们正忙着准备各种舢板，猎人们也得负责值班。我还打听到一些关于“魔鬼号”的消息：它原本是一艘私人游艇，结构优良，船身很稳定。在船上的人员一些托词说是之前不了解船长的性格，一部分人说是因为不能到正派的船上做事情，所以大家才被迫留在船上做事情。我认识了水手鲁易，他主动走进厨房和我聊天，好几次都表示自己如果当时清醒，肯定不会接受这份工作的。他告诉我海狼赖生简直是魔鬼，在他手中死了很多人，估计这次在航程结束之前，还会死更多的人。他向我形容了很多人被海狼赖生折磨的情景，我已经完全被吓住。他还提到了当时帮我急救的约翰生，并称他为船上最好的水手。约翰生的直率大方深得大家的喜欢，但是他不懂得伪装，这样很容易惹得海狼赖生对他产生憎恨。

茂格立治这段时间似乎被海狼赖生看中了，他也倚仗着这份荣幸，对我越来越过分。我的双手已经变得粗糙，充满了污秽，指甲发黑，膝盖上的伤还是没有痊愈。在船上，我就没有好好休息过。晚饭前又发生了件残忍的事情，新手哈列生爬到桅杆上想转动船帆时，却被滑轮夹注，他吓得紧紧抓住桅杆，在高空处拉住风帆不放，经过生死挣扎终于回到甲板上，但是已经被吓得失去了半条命，还要经受乔汉生的辱骂。不一会儿他又重新爬上桅杆，整理好帆，在高空他的四肢瑟瑟发抖，茂格立治看到这场景竟然笑出来，我平生第一次产生了杀人的念头。

约翰生看不下去了，他想把哈列生带下来，但遭到了海狼赖生的反对。到了晚上，当我走到甲板上时，看到哈列生依然挂在高空。幸好在我们吃完饭不久，他踉跄地走了进来。海狼赖生看出我一下午很不高兴，我责备他们对于那孩子过于残忍，海狼赖生认为人的生命没有任何价值，在他的质问下我竟然也无法说出生命的价值是什么；海狼赖生却指出生命的价值只是自己对自己的偏袒，就像哈列生一样，死死维护自己的生命，但倘若他摔死了，对这个世界没有任何损失。这也就是他自己对生命的高估，而在别人眼中却一文不值。

y the following morning the storm had blown itself quite out and

theGhost was rolling slightly on a calm sea without a breath of B

wind.Occasional light airs were felt，however，and Wolf Larsen patrolled the poop constantly，his eyes ever searching the sea to the northeastward，from which direction the great trade-wind must blow.

The men were all on deck and busy preparing their various boats for the season's hunting.There are seven boats aboard，the captain's dingey，and the six which the hunters will use.Three，a hunter，a boat-puller，and a boat-steerer，compose a boat's crew.On board the schooner the boat-pullers and steerers are the crew.The hunters，too，are supposed to be in command of the watches，subject，always，to the orders of Wolf Larsen.

All this，and more，I have learned.The Ghost is considered the fastest schooner in both the San Francisco and Victoria fleets.In fact，she was once a private yacht，and was built for speed.Her lines and fittings-though I know nothing about such things-speak for themselves.Johnson was telling me about her in a short chat I had with him during yesterday's second dog-watch.He spoke enthusiastically，with the love for a fine craft such as some men feel for horses.He is greatly disgusted with the outlook，and I am given to understand that Wolf Larsen bears a very unsavory reputation among the sealing captains.It was the Ghost herself that lured Johnson into signing for the voyage，but he is already beginning to repent.

As he told me，the Ghost is an eighty-ton schooner of a remarkably fine model.Her beam，or width，is twenty-three feet，and her length a little over ninety feet.A lead keel of fabulous but unknown weight makes her very stable，while she carries an immense spread of canvas.From the deck to the truck of the maintopmast is something over a hundred feet，while the foremast with its topmast is eight or ten feet shorter.I am giving these details so that the size of this little floating world which holds twenty-two men may be appreciated.It is a very little world，a mote，a speck，and I marvel that men should dare to venture the sea on a contrivance so small and fragile.

Wolf Larsen has，also，a reputation for reckless carrying on of sail.I overheard Henderson and another of the hunters，Standish，a Californian，talking about it.Two years ago he dismasted the Ghost in a gale on Bering Sea，whereupon the present masts were put in，which are stronger and heavier in every way.He is said to have remarked，when he put them in，that he preferred turning her over to losing the sticks.

Every man aboard，with the exception of Johansen，who is rather overcome by his promotion，seems to have an excuse for having sailed on the Ghost.Half the men forward are deep-water sailors，and their excuse is that they did not know anything about her or her captain.And those who do know，whisper that the hunters，while excellent shots，were so notorious for their quarrelsome and rascally proclivities that they could not sign on any decent schooner.

I have made the acquaintance of another one of the crew，-Louis he is called，a rotund and jovial-faced Nova Scotia Irishman，and a very sociable fellow，prone to talk as long as he can find a listener.In the afternoon，while the cook was below asleep and I was peeling the everlasting potatoes，Louis dropped into the galley for a“yarn.”His excuse for being aboard was that he was drunk when he signed.He assured me again and again that it was the last thing in the world he would dream of doing in a sober moment.It seems that he has been seal-hunting regularly each season for a dozen years，and is accounted one of the two or three very best boat-steerers in both fleets.

“Ah，my boy，”he shook his head ominously at me，“'tis the worst schooner ye could iv selected，nor were ye drunk at the time as was I.'Tis sealin'is the sailor's paradise-on other ships than this.The mate was the first，but mark me words，there'll be more dead men before the trip is done with.Hist，now，between you an’meself and the stanchion there，this Wolf Larsen is a regular devil，an’the Ghost’ll be a hell-ship like she’s always been since he had hold iv her.Don’t I know？Don’t I know？Don’t I remember him in Hakodate two years gone，when he had a row an’shot four iv his men？Wasn’t I a-layin’on the Emma L.，not three hundred yards away？An’there was a man the same year he killed with a blow iv his fist.Yes，sir，killed’im dead-oh.His head must iv smashed like an eggshell.An’wasn’t there the Governor of Kura Island，an’the Chief iv Police，Japanese gentlemen，sir，an’didn’t they come aboard the Ghost as his guests，abringin’their wives along-wee an’pretty little bits of things like you see’em painted on fans.An’as he was a-gettin’under way，didn’t the fond husbands get left astern-like in their sampan，as it might be by accident？An’wasn’t it a week later that the poor little ladies was put ashore on the other side of the island，with nothin’before’em but to walk home acrost the mountains on their weeny-teeny little straw sandals which wouldn’t hang together a mile？Don’t I know？’Tis the beast he is，this Wolf Larsen-the great big beast mentioned iv in Revelation；an’no good end will he ever come to.But I’ve said nothin’to ye，mind ye.I’ve whispered never a word；for old fat Louis’ll live the voyage out if the last mother’s son of yez go to the fishes.”

“Wolf Larsen！”he snorted a moment later.“Listen to the word，will ye！Wolf-'tis what he is.He's not black-hearted like some men.'Tis no heart he has at all.Wolf，just wolf，'tis what he is.D'ye wonder he’s well named？”

“But if he is so well known for what he is，”I queried，“how is it that he can get men to ship with him？”

“An'how is it ye can get men to do anything on God's earth an'sea？”Louis demanded with Celtic fire.“How d'ye find me aboard if'twasn’t that I was drunk as a pig when I put me name down？There’s them that can’t sail with better men，like the hunters，and them that don’t know，like the poor devils of wind-jammers for’ard there.But they’ll come to it，they’ll come to it，an’be sorry the day they was born.I could weep for the poor creatures，did I but forget poor old fat Louis and the troubles before him.But’tis not a whisper I’ve dropped，mind ye，not a whisper.”

“Them hunters is the wicked boys，”he broke forth again，for he sufferedfrom a constitutional plethora of speech.“But wait till they get to cutting up iv jinks and rowin”round.He's the boy'll fix'em，'Tis him that'll put the fear of God in their rotten black hearts.Look at that hunter iv mine，Horner.‘Jock’Horner they call him，so quiet-like an’easy-goin，’softspoken as a girl，till ye’d think butter wouldn’t melt in the mouth iv him.Didn’t he kill his boat-steerer last year？’Twas called a sad accident，but I met the boat-puller in Yokohama an’the straight iv it was given me.An’there’s Smoke，the black little devil-didn’t the Roosians have him for three years in the salt mines of Siberia，for poachin’on Copper Island，which is a Roosian preserve？Shackled he was，hand an’foot，with his mate.An’didn’t they have words or a ruction of some kind？-for’twas the other fellow Smoke sent up in the buckets to the top of the mine；an’a piece at the time he went up，a leg to-day，an’to-morrow an arm，the next day the head，an’so on.”

“But you can't mean it！”I cried out，overcome with the horror of it.

“Mean what？”he demanded，quick as a flash.“'Tis nothin'I've said.Deer I am，and dumb，as ye should be for the sake iv your mother；an'never once have I opened me lips but to say fine things iv them an'him，God curse his soul，an’may he rot in purgatory ten thousand years，and then go down to the last an’deepest hell iv all！”

Johnson，the man who had chafed me raw when I first came aboard，seemed the least equivocal of the men forward or aft.In fact，there was nothing equivocal about him.One was struck at once by his straightforwardness and manliness，which，in turn，were tempered by a modesty which might be mistaken for timidity.But timid he was not.He seemed，rather，to have the courage of his convictions，the certainty of his manhood.It was this that made him protest，at the commencement of our acquaintance，against being called Yonson.And upon this，and him，Louis passed judgment and prophecy.

“'Tis a fine chap，that squarehead Johnson we've for'ard with us，”he said.“The best sailorman in the fo'c'sle.He’s my boat-puller.But it’s to trouble he’ll come with Wolf Larsen，as the sparks fly upward.It’s meself that knows.I can see it brewin’an’comin’up like a storm in the sky.I’ve talked to him like a brother，but it’s little he sees in takin’in his lights or flyin’false signals.He grumbles out when things don’t go to suit him，and there’ll be always sometelltale carryin’word iv it aft to the Wolf.The Wolf is strong，and it’s the way of a wolf to hate strength，an’strength it is he’ll see in Johnson-no knucklin’under，and a‘Yes，sir，thank ye kindly，sir，’for a curse or a blow.Oh，she’s a-comin！’She’s a-comin！’An’God knows where I’ll get another boatpuller！What does the fool up an’say，when the old man calls him Yonson，but‘Me name is Johnson，sir，’an’then spells it out，letter for letter.Ye should iv seen the old man’s face！I thought he’d let drive at him on the spot.He didn’t，but he will，an’he’ll break that squarehead’s heart，or it’s little I know iv the ways iv men on the ships iv the sea.”

Thomas Mugridge is becoming unendurable.I am compelled to Mister him and to Sir him with every speech.One reason for this is that Wolf Larsen seems to have taken a fancy to him.It is an unprecedented thing，I take it，for a captain to be chummy with the cook；but this is certainly what Wolf Larsen is doing.Two or three times he put his head into the galley and chaffed Mugridge good-naturedly，and once，this afternoon，he stood by the break of the poop and chatted with him for fully fifteen minutes.When it was over，and Mugridge was back in the galley，he became greasily radiant，and went about his work，humming coster songs in a nerve-racking and discordant falsetto.

“I always get along with the officers，”he remarked to me in a confidential tone.“I know the w'y，I do，to make myself uppreci-yted.There was my last skipper-w'y I thought nothin'of droppin'down in the cabin for a little chat and a friendly glass.‘Mugridge，'sez’e to me，‘Mugridge，’sez’e，‘you’ve missed yer vokytion.’‘An’’ow’s that？’sez I.‘Yet should’a been born a gentleman，an’never’ad to work for yet livin’，’God strike me dead，’Ump，if that ayn’t wot’e sez，an’me a-sittin’there in’is own cabin，jolly-like an’comfortable，a-smokin’’is cigars an’drinkin’’is rum.”

This chitter-chatter drove me to distraction.I never heard a voice I hated so.His oily，insinuating tones，his greasy smile，and his monstrous self-conceit grated on my nerves till sometimes I was all in a tremble.Positively，he was the most disgusting and loathsome person I have ever met.The filth of his cooking was indescribable；and，as he cooked everything that was eaten aboard，I was compelled to select what I ate with great circumspection，choosing from the least dirty of his concoctions.

My hands bothered me a great deal，unused as they were to work.The nails were discolored and black，while the skin was already grained with dirt which even a scrubbing-brush could not remove.Then blisters came，in a painful and neverending procession，and I had a great burn on my forearm，acquired by losing my balance in a roll of the ship and pitching against the galley stove.Nor was my knee any better.The swelling had not gone down，and the cap was still up on edge.Hobbling about on it from morning to night was not helping it any.What I needed was rest，if it were ever to get well.

Rest！I never before knew the meaning of the word.I had been resting all my life and did not know it.But now，could I sit still for one half-hour and do nothing，not even think，it would be the most pleasurable thing in the world.But it is a revelation，on the other hand.I shall be able to appreciate the lives of the working people hereafter.I did not dream that work was so terrible a thing.From half-past five in the morning till ten o'clock at night I am everybody's slave，with not one moment to myself，except such as I can steal near the end of the second dog-watch.Let me pause for a minute to look out over the sea sparkling in the sun，or to gaze at a sailor going aloft to the gaff-topsails，or running out the bowsprit，and I am sure to hear the hateful voice，“'Ere，you，'Ump，no sodgerin'.I’ve got my peepers on yer.”

There are signs of rampant bad temper in the steerage，and the gossip is going around that Smoke and Henderson have had a fight.Henderson seems the best of the hunters，a slowgoing fellow，and hard to rouse；but roused he must have been，for Smoke had a bruised and discolored eye，and looked particularly vicious when he came into the cabin for supper.

A cruel thing happened just before supper，indicative of the callousness and brutishness of these men.There is one green hand in the crew，Harrison by name，a clumsy-looking country boy，mastered，I imagine，by the spirit of adventure，and making his first voyage.In the light baffling airs the schooner had been tacking about a great deal，at which times the sails pass from one side to the other and a man is sent aloft to shift over the fore-gaff-topsail.In some way，when Harrison was aloft，the sheet jammed in the block through which it runs at the end of the gaff.As I understood it，there were two ways of getting it cleared，-first，by lowering the foresail，which was comparatively easy andwithout danger；and second，by climbing out the peak-halyards to the end of the gaff itself，an exceedingly hazardous performance.

Johansen called out to Harrison to go out the halyards.It was patent to everybody that the boy was afraid.And well he might be，eighty feet above the deck，to trust himself on those thin and jerking ropes.Had there been a steady breeze it would not have been so bad，but the Ghost was rolling emptily in a long sea，and with each roll the canvas flapped and boomed and the halyards slacked and jerked taut They were capable of snapping a man off like a fly from a whip-lash.

Harrison heard the order and understood what was demanded of him，but hesitated.It was probably the first time he had been aloft in his life.Johansen，who had caught the contagion of Wolf Larsen's masterfulness，burst out with a volley of abuse and curses.

“That'll do，Johansen，”Wolf Larsen said brusquely.“I'll have you know that I do the swearing on this ship.If I need your assistance，I'll call you in.”

“Yes，sir，”the mate acknowledged submissively.

In the meantime Harrison had started out on the halyards.

I was looking up from the galley door，and I could see him trembling，as with ague，in every limb.He proceeded very slowly and cautiously，an inch at a time.Outlined against the clear blue of the sky，he had the appearance of an enormous spider crawling along the tracery of its web.

It was a slight uphill climb，for the foresail peaked high；and the halyards，running through various blocks on the gaff and mast，gave him separate holds for hands and feet.But the trouble lay in that the wind was not strong enough nor steady enough to keep the sail full.When he was halfway out，the Ghost took a long roll to windward and back again into the hollow between two seas.Harrison ceased his progress and held on tightly.Eighty feet beneath，I could see the agonized strain of his muscles as he gripped for very life.The sail emptied and the gaff swung amidships.The halyards slackened，and，though it all happened very quickly，I could see them sag beneath the weight of his body.Then the gaff swung to the side with an abrupt swiftness，the great sail boomed like a cannon，and the three rows of reef-points slatted against the canvas like a volley of rifles.Harrison，clinging on，made the giddy rush through the air.Thisrush ceased abruptly.The halyards became instantly taut.It was the snap of the whip.His clutch was broken.One hand was torn loose from its hold.The other lingered desperately for a moment，and followed.His body pitched out and down，but in some way he managed to save himself with his legs.He was hanging by them，head downward.A quick effort brought his hands up to the halyards again；but he was a long time regaining his former position，where he hung，a pitiable object.

“I'll bet he has no appetite for supper，”I heard Wolf Larsen's voice，which came to me from around the corner of the galley.“Stand from under，you，Johansen！Watch out！Here she comes！”

In truth，Harrison was very sick，as a person is seasick；and for a long time he clung to his precarious perch without attempting to move.Johansen，however，continued violently to urge him on to the completion of his task.

“It is a shame，”I heard Johnson growling in painfully slow and correct English.He was standing by the main rigging，a few feet away from me.“The boy is willing enough.He will learn if he has a chance.But this is-”He paused awhile，for the word“murder”was his final judgment.

“Hist，will ye！”Louis whispered to him.“For the love iv your mother hold your mouth！”

But Johnson，looking on，still continued his grumbling.

“Look here，”the hunter，Standish，spoke to Wolf Larsen，“that's my boat-puller，and I don't want to lose him.”

“That's all right，Standish，”was the reply.“He's your boatpuller when you've got him in the boat；but he's my sailor when I have him aboard，and I'll do what I damn well please with him.”

“But that's no reason-”Standish began in a torrent of speech.

“That'll do，easy as she goes，”Wolf Larsen counselled back.“I've told you what's what，and let it stop at that.The man's mine，and I'll make soup of him and eat it if I want to.”

There was an angry gleam in the hunter's eye，but he turned on his heel and entered the steerage companionway，where he remained，looking upward.All hands were on deck now，and all eyes were aloft，where a human life was at grapples with death.The callousness of these men，to whom industrialorganization gave control of the lives of other men，was appalling.I，who had lived out of the whirl of the world，had never dreamed that its work was carried on in such fashion.Life had always seemed a peculiarly sacred thing，but here it counted for nothing，was a cipher in the arithmetic of commerce.I must say，however，that the sailors themselves were sympathetic，as instance the case of Johnson；but the masters，（the hunters and the captain），were heartlessly indifferent.Even the protest of Standish arose out of the fact that he did not wish to lose his boatpuller.Had it been some other hunter's boat-puller，he，like them，would have been no more than amused.

But to return to Harrison.It took Johansen，insulting and reviling the poor wretch，fully ten minutes to get him started again.A little later he made the end of the gaff，where，astride the spar itself，he had a better chance for holding on.He cleared the sheet，and was free to return，slightly down-hill now，along the halyards to the mast.But he had lost his nerve.Unsafe as was his present position，he was loath to forsake it for the more unsafe position on the halyards.

He looked along the tory path he must traverse，and then down to the deck.His eyes were wide and staring，and he was trembling violently.I had never seen fear so strongly stamped upon a human face.Johansen called vainly for him to come down.At any moment he was liable to be snapped off the gaff，but he was helpless with fright.Wolf Larsen，walking up and down with Smoke and in conversation，took no more notice of him，though he cried sharply，once，to the man at the wheel：-

“You're off your course，my man！Be careful，unless you're looking for trouble！”

“Ay，ay，sir，”the helmsman responded，putting a couple of spokes down.

He had been guilty of running the Ghost several points off her course in order that what little wind there was should fill the foresail and hold it steady.He had striven to help the unfortunate Harrison at the risk of incurring Wolf Larsen's anger.

The time went by，and the suspense，to me，was terrible.Thomas Mugridge，on the other hand，considered it a laughable affair，and was continually bobbing his head out the galley door to make jocose remarks.How I hated him！And how my hatred for him grew and grew，during that fearful time，to cyclopeandimensions.For the first time in my life I experienced the desire to murder-“saw red，”as some of our picturesque writers phrase it.Life in general might still be sacred，but life in the particular case of Thomas Mugridge had become very profane indeed.I was frightened when I became conscious that I was seeing red，and the thought flashed through my mind：was I，too，becoming tainted by the brutality of my environment？-I，who even in the most flagrant crimes had denied the justice and righteousness of capital punishment？

Fully half an hour went by，and then I saw Johnson and Louis in some sort of altercation.It ended with Johnson flinging off Louis's detaining arm and starting forward.He crossed the deck，sprang into the fore rigging，and began to climb.But the quick eye of Wolf Larsen caught him.

“Here，you，what are you up to？”he cried.

Johnson's ascent was arrested.He looked his captain in the eyes and replied slowly：-

“I am going to get that boy down.”

“You'll get down out of that rigging，and damn lively about it！D'ye hear？Get down！”

Johnson hesitated，but the long years of obedience to the masters of ships overpowered him，and he dropped sullenly to the deck and went forward.

At half after five I Went below to set the cabin table，but I hardly knew what I did，for my eyes and brain were filled with the vision of a man，white-faced and trembling，comically like a bug，clinging to the thrashing gaff.At six o'clock，when I served supper，going on deck to get the food from the galley，I saw Harrison，still in the same position.The conversation at the table was of other things.Nobody seemed interested in the wantonly imperilled life.But making an extra trip to the galley a little later，I was gladdened by the sight of Harrison staggering weakly from the rigging to the forecastle scuttle.He had finally summoned the courage to descend.

Before closing this incident，I must give a scrap of conversation I had with Wolf Larsen in the cabin，while I was washing the dishes.

“You were looking squeamish this afternoon，”he began.“What was the matter？”

I could see that he knew what had made me possibly as sick as Harrison，that he was trying to draw me，and I answered，“It was because of the brutal treatment of that boy.”

He gave a short laugh.“Like seasickness，I suppose.Some men are subject to it，and others are not.”

“Not so，”I objected.

“Just so，”he went on.“The earth is as full of brutality as the sea is full of motion.And some men are made sick by the one，and some by the other.That's the only reason.”

“But you，who make a mock of human life，don't you place any value upon it whatever？”I demanded.

“Value？What value？”He looked at me，and though his eyes were steady and motionless，there seemed a cynical smile in them.“What kind of value？How do you measure it？Who values it？”

“I do，”I made answer.

“Then what is it worth to you？Another man's life，I mean.Come，now，what is it worth？”

The value of life？How could I put a tangible value upon it？Somehow，I，who have always had expression，lacked expression when with Wolf Larsen.I have since determined that a part of it was due to the man's personality，but that the greater part was due to his totally different outlook.Unlike other materialists I had met and with whom I had something in common to start on，I had nothing m common with him.Perhaps，also，it was the elemental simplicity of his mind that baffled me.He drove so directly to the core of the matter，divesting a question always of all superfluous details，and with such an air of finality，that I seemed to find myself struggling in deep water with no footing under me.Value of life？How could I answer the question on the spur of the moment？The sacredness of life I had accepted as axiomatic.That it was intrinsically valued was a truism I had never questioned.But when he challenged the truism I was speechless.

“We were talking about this yesterday，”he said.“I held that life was a ferment，a yeasty something which devoured life that it might live，and that living was merely successful piggishness.Why，if there is anything in supplyand demand，life is the cheapest thing in the world.There is only so much water，so much earth，so much air；but the life that is demanding to be born is limitless.Nature is a spendthrift.Look at the fish and their millions of eggs.For that matter，look at you and me.In our loins are the possibilities of millions of lives.Could we but find time and opportunity and utilize the last bit and every bit of the unborn life that is in us，we could become the fathers of nations and populate continents.Life？Bah！It has no value.Of cheap things it is the cheapest.Everywhere it goes begging.Nature spills it out with a lavish hand.Where there is room for one life，she sows a thousand lives，and it's life eats life till the strongest and most piggish life is left.”

“You have read Darwin，”I said.“But you read him misunderstandingly when you conclude that the struggle for existence sanctions your wanton destruction of life.”

He shrugged his shoulders.“You know you only mean that in relation to human life，for of the flesh and the fowl and the fish you destroy as much as I or any other man.And human life is in no wise different，though you feel it is and think that you reason why it is.Why should I be parsimonious with this life which is cheap and without value？There are more sailors than there are ships on the sea for them，more workers than there are factories or machines for them.Why，you who live on the land know that you house your poor people in the slums of cities and loose famine and pestilence upon them，and that there still remain more poor people，dying for want of a crust of bread and a bit of meat，（which is life destroyed），than you know what to do with.Have you ever seen the London dockers fighting like wild beasts for a chance to work？”

He started for the companion stairs，but turned his head for a final word.“Do you know the only value life has is what life puts upon itself？And it is of course overestimated，since it is of necessity prejudiced in its own favor.Take that man I had aloft.He held on as if he were a precious thing，a treasure beyond diamonds or rubies.To you？No.To me？Not at all.To himself？Yes.But I do not accept his estimate.He sadly overrates himself.There is plenty more life demanding to be born.Had he fallen and dripped his brains upon the deck like honey from the comb，there would have been no loss to the world.Hewas worth nothing to the world.The supply is too large.To himself only was he of value，and to show how fictitious even this value was，being dead he is unconscious that he has lost himself.He alone rated himself beyond diamonds and rubies.Diamonds and rubies are gone，spread out on the deck to be washed away by a bucket of sea-water，and he does not even know that the diamonds and rubies are gone.He does not lose anything，for with the loss of himself he loses the knowledge of loss.Don't you see？And what have you to say？”

“That you are at least consistent，”was all I could say，and I went on washing the dishes.第七章　Chapter 7导读

三天之后，我们终于赶上了贸易风，“魔鬼号”的每一张帆都被吹鼓起来，船飞快地前进着，水手们终于可以休息了。约翰生一直站在船头，眼神里充满了喜悦，我虽然忙得不可开交，但还是偷偷享受着这无尽的美景。那天晚上，我听到海狼赖生在朗诵诗句，这让我大吃一惊，他问我是否被感动，并强调这些是生命，是生活，我用他自己对于生命没有价值的言论回敬了他，惹得他哈哈大笑，这也是我第一次听到他发自内心的喜悦。他尽量想出合适的词汇向我表达他内心的思想，说完又跳到甲板上。这时，一个水手在甲板上唱起《贸易风之歌》，浑厚的男高音响彻天际。

t last，after three days of variable winds，we have caught

thenortheast trades.I came on deck，after a good night's rest in A

spite of my poor knee，to find the Ghost foaming along，wing-and-wing，and every sail drawing except the jibs，with a fresh breeze astern.Oh，the wonder of the great tradewind！All day we sailed，and all night，and the next day，and the next day，day after day，the wind always astern and blowing steadily and strong.The schooner sailed herself.There was no pulling and hauling on sheets and tackles，no shifting of topsails，no work at all for the sailors to do except to steer.At night when the sun went down，the sheets were slackened；in the morning，when they yielded up the damp of the dew and relaxed，they were pulled tight again-and that was all.

Ten knots，twelve knots，eleven knots，varying from time to time，is the speed we are making.And ever out of the northeast the brave wind blows，driving us on our course two hundred and fifty miles between the dawns.It saddens me and gladdens me，the gait with which we are leaving San Francisco behind and with which we are foaming down upon the tropics.Each day grows perceptibly warmer.In the second dog-watch the sailors come on deck，stripped，and heave buckets of water upon one another from overside.Flyingfish are beginning to be seen，and during the night the watch above scrambles over the deck in pursuit of those that fall aboard.In the morning，Thomas Mugridge being duly bribed，the galley is pleasantly areek with the odor of their frying；while dolphin meat is served fore and aft on such occasions as Johnson catches the blazing beauties from the bowsprit end.

Johnson seems to spend all his spare time there or aloft at the crosstrees，watching the Ghost cleaving the water under press of sail.There is passion，adoration，in his eyes，and he goes about in a sort of trance，gazing in ecstasy at the swelling sails，the foaming wake，and the heave and the run of her over the liquid mountains that are moving with us in stately procession.

The days and nights are“all a wonder and a wild delight，”and though I have little time from my dreary work，I steal odd moments to gaze and gaze at the unending glory of what I never dreamed the world possessed.Above，the sky is stainless blue-blue as the sea itself，which under the forefoot is of the color and sheen of azure satin.All around the horizon are pale，fleecy clouds，never changing，never moving，like a silver setting for the flawless turquoise sky.

I do not forget one night，when I should have been asleep，of lying on the forecastle-head and gazing down at the spectral ripple of foam thrust aside by the Ghost's forefoot.It sounded like the gurgling of a brook over mossy stones in some quiet dell，and the crooning song of it lured me away and out of myself till I was no longer Hump the cabin-boy，nor Van Weyden，the man who had dreamed away thirty-five years among books.But a voice behind me，the unmistakable voice of Wolf Larsen，strong with the invincible certitude of theman and mellow with appreciation of the words he was quoting，aroused me.

“‘O the blazing tropic night，when the wake's a welt of light That holds the hot sky tame，And the steady forefoot snores through the planet-powdered floors.

Where the scared whale flukes in flame.

Her plates are scarred by the sun，dear lass，And her ropes are taut with the dew，For we're booming down on the old trail，our own trail，the out trail，We're sagging south on the Long Trail-the trail that is always new.'”

“Eh，Hump？How's it strike you？”he asked，after the due pause which words and setting demanded.

I looked into his face.It was aglow with light，as the sea itself，and the eyes were flashing in the starshine.

“It strikes me as remarkable，to say the least，that you should show enthusiasm，”I answered coldly.

“Why，man，it's living！it's life！”he cried.

“Which is a cheap thing and without value，”I flung his words at him.

试读结束[说明：试读内容隐藏了图片]

下载完整电子书