Evening Republican, Volume 20, Number 86, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 10 April 1916 — The SEA WOLF [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

The SEA WOLF

SYNOPSIS. Humphrey Van Weyden, critic and dilettante, ia thrown Into the water by the •inking of a ferryboat in a fog in San Francisco bay. and becomes unconscious before help reaches him. On coming to his senses he finds himself aboard the ■eallng schooner Ghost, Captain Wolf Laraen, bound to Japan waters, witnesses the death of the first mate and hears the captain curse the dead man for presuming to die. The captain refuses to put Humphrey ashore and makes him cabin boy “for the good of his soul.” He begins to learn potato peeling and dish washing under the cockney cook. Mugridge, is caught by a heavy sea shipped over the quarter as he is carrying tea aft and his knee is seriously hurt, but no one pays any attention to his injury. Hump’s quarters are changed aft. Mugridge steals his money and chases him when accused of it. Later he listens to Wolf give his idea of life—"like yeast, a ferment . . . foe big •at the little . . . f/ Cooky is jealous of Hump and hazes him. Wolf hazes a seaman and makes it the basis for another philosophic discussion 'with Hump. Wolf entertains Mugridge in his cabin.

CHAPTER Vll—Continued. In the end, with loud protestations that he could lose like a gentleman, the cook's last money was staked on the game and lost. Whereupon he leaned his head on his hands and wept. Wolf Larsen looked curiously at him, as though about to probe and vivisect him, then changed his mind, as from the foregone conclusion that there was nothing there to probe. “Hump,” he said to me, elaborately polite, "kindly take Mr. Mugridge’s arm and help him up on deck. He is not feeling very well.” “And tell Johnson to douse him with a few buckets of salt water,” he added, in a lower tone for my ear alone. I left Mr. Mugridge on deck, in the hands of a couple of grinning sailors who had been told off for the purpose. Mr. Mugridge was sleepily spluttering that he was a gentleman’s son. But. as I descended the companion stairs to clear the table I heard him shriek as the first bucket of water •truck him.

Wolf Larsen was counting his winnings. “One hundred and elghty-flve dollars even," he said aloud. "Just as I thought. The beggar, came aboard without a cent." . “And what you have won is mine, sir,” 1 said boldly. He favored me with a quizzical smile. “Hump, I have studied some grammar in my time, and I think your tenses are tangled. ‘Was mine,’ you should have said, not 'ls mine.' ” "It Is a question not of grammar but of ethics,” I answered. It was possibly a minute before he epoke. “D'ye know, Hump,” he said, with a slow seriousness which had in it an Indefinable strain of sadness, “that this is the first time I have heard the word ‘ethics’ in the mouth of a man. *You and I are the only men on this ship who know Its meaning.” “At one time In my life,” he continued, after another pause, “I dreamed that I might some day talk with men who used such language, that I might lift myself out of the place In life In which I had been born, and hold conversation and mingle with men who talked about just such things as ethics. And this is the first time I have ever heard the word pronounced. Which Is all by the way, for you are wrong. It Is a question, neither of grammar nor ethics, but of fact.” “I understand," I said. "The fact is that you have the money." His face brightened. He seemed pleased at my perspicacity. "But you wrong me by withholding It." I objected. "Not at all. One man cannot wrong another man. He can only wrong himself. As I see it, I do wrong always when I consider the Interests of others. Don’t you see ?\ How can two particles of the yeast wrong each other by striving to devour each other? It is their Inborn heritage to strive to devour, and to strive not to be devoured. When they depart from this they sin.”

"Then you don’t believe In altruism?" I asked. He received the word as if it had a familiar ring, though he pondered it thoughtfully. "Let me see, it means * something about co-operation, doesn’t It. “Oh, yes, I remember it now. I ran across it in Spencer." "Spencer!" I cried. "Have you read him?" "Not very much," was his confession. His ‘Psychology' left me butting around in the doldrums for many a day. But 1 did get something out of his ‘Data of Ethics.’ There’s where I ran across ‘altruism,’ and I remember now bow it was used.” “What else did you run across?” I asked. “In as few words as possible,” he began. “Spencer puts it something like this: First, a man must act for his own benefit—to do this is to be moral and good. Next, he must act for the benefit of his children. And third, he must act for the benefit of his race.” ‘‘And the highest, finest, right conduct," I interjected, “is that act which benefits at the same time the man, his children, and his race.” . “I wouldn’t stand for that," he resiled. “Couldn’t see the necessity tor ~—ST '

it, nor the common sense. 1 cut out the race and the children. Any sacrifice that makes foe lose one crawl or squirm is foolish —and not only foolish, for it is a wrong against myself and a wicked thing. I must not lose one crawl or squirm if I am to get the most out of the ferment. Nor will the eternal movelessness that is coming to me be made easier or harder by the sacrifices or selfishness of the time when I was yeasty and acrawl.” “Then you are a man one could not trust in the least thing where it was possible for a selfish Interest to intervene?” “Now you’re beginning to understand,” he said, brightening. “You are a man utterly without what the world calls morals?” “That’s it." "A man of whom to be always afraid—” “That’s the way to put it." "As one is afraid of a snake, or a tiger, or a shark?” “Now you know me," he said. “And you know me as I am generally known. Other men call me ‘Wolf.’ ’’ “You are a sort of monster," I added audaciously, “a Caliban who has pondered Setebos, and who acts as you act, in idle moments, by whim and fancy.” His brow clouded at the allusion. He did not understand, and I quickly learned that he did not know the poem. I "I’m just reading Browning," he confessed, “and it’s pretty tough. I haven’t got very far along, and as it is I’ve about lost my bearings." Not to be tiresome, I shall say that I fetched the book from his stateroom and read “Caliban” aloud. He was delighted. It was a primitive mode of reasoning and of looking at things that he understqpd thoroughly. He interrupted again and again with comment and criticism. When I finished, he had me read it over a second time, and a third. We fell into discussionphilosophy, science, evolution, religion. Time passed. Supper was at hand and the table not laid. I became' restless and anxious, and when Thomas Mugridge glared down the companionway, sick and angry of countenance, I prepared to go about my duties; But Wolf Larsen cried out to him: “Cooky, you’ve got to hustle tonight. I’m busy with Hump, and you’ll do the best you can without him.” And again the unprecedented was established. That night I sat at table with the captain and the hunters, while Thomas Mugridge waited on us

and washed the dishes afterward —a whim, a Callban-mood of Wolf Larsen’s, and one 1 foresaw would bring me trouble. In the meantime we talked and talked, much to the disgust of the hupters, who could not understand a word.

\ CHAPTER VIII. Three days of rest, three blessed days of rest, are what I had with Wolf Larsen, eating at the cabin table and doing nothing blit discuss life, literature and the universe, the while Thomas Mugridge fumed and raged and did my work as well as his own. “Watch out for squalls, is all I can say to you,” was Louis’ warning, given durlug a spare half-hour on deck while Larsen was engaged in straightening out a row among the hunters. I Was not altogether surprised when the squall foretold by Louis smote me. We had been having a heated discussion —upon life, of course —and. grown overbold, I was passing stiff strictures upon Wolf Larsen and the life of Wolf Larsen. The darksunbronze of his face went black with wrath, his eyes were ablaze. He sprang for me with a half roar, gripping my arm. I wilted and shrieked aloud, biceps were being crushed.to a pulp. He seemed to recover himself, 'for a lucid gleam came into his eyes, and he flayed his hold with a short laugh

that was more like a growl I fell to the floor, feeling very faint, while he sat down, lighted a cigar, and watched me as a- cat watches a mouse. As I writhed about I could see in his eyes that curiosity I had so often noted, that wonder and perplexity, that questioning, that everlasting query of his as to what it was all about. I finally crawled to my feet and ascended the companion stairs. Fair weather was over, and there was nothing left but to return to the galley. My left arm was numb, as though paralyzed, and days passed before I could use it, while weeks went by before the last stiffness and pain went out of it. And he had done nothing but put his hand upon my arm and squeeze. What he might have done 1 did not fully realize till next day, when he put his head into the galley, and, as a sign of renewed friendliness, asked me how my arm was getting on. “It might have been worse," he smiled. I was peeling potatoes. He picked one up from the pan.. It was fair sized, firm and unpeeled. He closed his hand upon it, squeezed, and the potato squirted out between his fingers in mushy streams: The pulpy remnant he dropped back into the pan* and turned away, and I had a sharp vision of how it might have fared with me had the monster put his real strength upon me.

But the three days’ rest brought the trouble I had foreseen. It was plainly Thomas Mugridge’s intention to make me pay for those three days. He treated me vilely, cursed me continually, and heaped his own work upon me. He even, ventured to raise his fist to me, but I was becoming animallike myself, and I snarled in his face so terribly that it must have frightened him back. A pair of beasts is what we were, penned together and showing our teeth. He was a coward, afraid to strike me because I had not quailed sufficiently in advance; so he chose a new way to intimidate me. There was only one galley knife that, as a knife, amounted to anything. He whetted it up and down all day long. Every odd moment he could find he had the knife and stone out and was whetting away till I could have laughed aloud, it was so very ludicrous.

It was also serious, for I learned that he was capable of using it, that under all his cowardice there was a courage of cowardice, like mine, that would Impel him to do the very thing his whole nature protested against doing and was afraid of doing. "Cooky’s sharpening his knife for Hump,” was being whispered about among the sailors, and some of them twitted him about it. This he took in good part, and was really pleased, nodding his head with direful foreknowledge and mystery, until George Leach, the erstwhile cabin-boy, ventured some rough pleasantry on the subject. Now It happened that Leach was one of the sailors told oft to douse Mugridge after his game of cards with the captain. Leach had evidently done his task with a thoroughness that Mugridge had not forgiven, for words followed and evil names Involving smirched ancestries. Mugridge menaced with the knife he was sharpening for me. Leach laughed and hurled more of his Telegraph hill billingsgate, and before either he or I knew what had happened, his right arm had been ripped open from elbow to wrist by a quick slash of the knife. The cook backed away, a fiendish expression on his face, the knife held before him In a position of defense. But Leach took It quite calmly, though blood was spouting upon the deck as generously as water from a fountain “I’m goln’ to get you, Cooky.” he said, "and L’ll get you hard. And L won’t be In no hurry about it You’ll be without that knife when I come for you.” So saying, he turned and walked quietly forward. Mugridge’s face was livid with fear at what he had done and at what he might expect sooner or later from the man he had stabbed. But his demeanor toward me was more ferocious than ever. Several days went by, the Ghost still foaming down the trades, and I could swear I saw madness growing In Thomas Mugridge’s eyes. And I confess that I became afraid, very much afraid. Whet, whet. It went all day long. The look In his eyes as he felt the keen edge and glared at nre was positively carnivorous. I was afraid to turn my shoulder to him, and when I left the galley I went out backward — to the amusement of the sailors and hunters, who made a point of gathering in groups to witness my exit Several times Wolf Larsen tried to Inveigle me Into discussion, but I gave him short answers and eluded him. Finally, he commanded me to resume my seat at the cabin table for a time, and let the cook do my work. Then I spoke frankly, telling him what I was enduring from Thomas Mugridge because of the three days of favoritism which had been shown me. Wolf Larsen regarded me with smiling eyes. “So you’re afraid, eh?” he sneered. It was plain that I could look for no help ot mercy from Wolf Larsen. Whatever was to be done I must do for myself; and out of the courage of fear I evolved the plan ot fighting Thomas Mugridge with his own weapons. X borrowed whetstone from Johansen. Louis, the boat steerer, had already begged me for condensed milk and sugar. The lazaretto, where ated beneath- the cabin floor. Watching my chance, I stole five cans of the milk, and that night, when It was Louis’ watch on deck. 1 traded them with him for. a dirk as lean and cruellooklng as Thomas Mugridge’s vegetable knife. It was rusty and dull, but I turned the grindstone while Louis

gave it an edge. I slept more soundly than usual that night. Next morning, after breakfast. Thomas Mugridge began bls whet, whet, whet. I glanced warily at him, for I was on my knees taking the ashes from the stove. I put the shovel away and calmly sat down on the coal box facing him. He favored me with a vicious stare. Still calmly, though my heart was going pitapat. I pulled out Louis’ dirk and began to whet it on the stone. I had looked for almost any sort of explosion on the cockney’s part, but to my surprise he did not appear aware of what I was doing. He w?nt on whetting his knife. So did I. And for two hours we sat there, face to face, whet, whet, whet, till the news of it spread abroad and half the ship’s company was crowding the galley doors to see the sight. Encouragement and advice were { freely tendered, and Jock Horner, the quiet, self-spoken hunter who looked as though he would not harm a mouse, advised me to leave the ribs alone and to thrust upward for the abdomen, at the same time giving what he called the “Spanish twist” to the blade. Leach, his bandaged arm prominently to the fore, begged me to leave a few remnants of the cook for him; and Wolf Larsen paused once or twice at the break of the poop to glance curl-

ously at what must have been to him a stirring and crawling of the yeasty thing he knew as life. But nothing happened. At the end of two hours Thomas Mugridge put away knife and stone and held out his hand. ‘‘Wot’s the good of mykin’ a ’oly show of ourselves for them mugs?" he demanded. “They don’t love us, an’ bloody well glad they’d be a-seeln’ us cuttin’ our throats. Yer not ’art bad, 'Ump! You’ve got spunk, as you Yanks s’y, an’ I like yer In a w'y. So come on an’ shyke.” Coward ttj,at I might be, I was less a coward than he. It was a distinct victory I had gained, and I refused to forego any of it by shaking his de testable hand. (TO BE CONTINUED.)

“He Leaned His Head on His Hands and Wept”

"You Are a Man Utterly Without What the World Calls Morals."