Evening Republican, Volume 20, Number 89, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 13 April 1916 — Page 3

The SEA WOLF

SYNOPSIS. —B— Van Weyden, critic and dilettante, is thrown into the water by the sinking of a ferryboat in a fog in San Francisco bay, and becomes unconscious before help reaches him: —Oiif -coming to his senses he finds himself aboard the sealing schooner Ghost. Captain Wolf Ijarsen, bound (o 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 ills kned 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 . . . the big eat the little . . Cooky is jealous of Hump and hazes him. Wolf hazes a seaman and makes It the basis fdr another philosophic discussion with Hump. Wolf entertains Mugridge in his cabin, wins from him at cards the money he stole from Hump, and then tells Hump it Is his Wolf’s by right of might. Cooky and Hump whet knives at each other. Hump’s intimacy with Wolf Increases, and Wolf sketches the story of his life to Hump.

CHAPTER X—Continued. “You are worse off than Omar,” 1 said. “He, at least, after the customary agonizing of youth, found content and made of his materialism a joyous thing/* —— “Who was Omar?” Wolf Larsen asked, and I did no more work that day, nor the next, nor the next. In his random reading he had never chanced upon the Rubaiyat, and it was to him like a great find of treasure. Much I remembered, possibly twothirds of the quatrains, and I managed to piece out the remainder without difficulty. I was Interested as to which quatrain he would like best, and was not surprised when he hit upon the one born of an instant’s Irritability, and quite at variance with the Persian’s complacent philosophy and genial code of life: What, without asking, hither hurried Whence? And, without asking. Whither hurried hence! Oh, many a Cup of this forbidden Wine Must drown the memory of that Insolence! “Great!” Wolf Larsen cried. “Great! That’s the keynote. Insolence! He could not have used a better word.” In vain 1 objected and denied. He deluged me, overwhelmed me with argument. “It's not the nature of life to be otherwise. Life, when it knows that it must cease living, will always rebel. It cannot help itself. You have talked of the Instinct of immortality. I talk of the instinct of life, which is to live. It mastered it in you (you cannot deny it), because a crazy cockney cook sharpened a knife. “You are afraid of him now. You are afraid of me. You cannot deny it. If I should catch you by the throat, thus” —his hand was about my throat and my breath was shut off —“and begin to press the life out of you, thus, and thus, your Instinct of immortality will go glimmering, and your instinct of life, which is longing for life, will flutter up, and you will struggle to save yourself. Eh? I see thevfear of death in your eyes. You beat the air with your arms. ‘To live! To live! To live!’ you are crying; and you are crying to live here and now, not hereafter. You doubt your immortality, eh? Ha! Ha! Your body draws itself up in knots like a snake’s. Your chest heaves and strains. To live! To live! To live—”

I heard no more. Consciousness was blotted out by the darkness he had so graphically described, and when 1 came to myself I was lying on the floor and he was smoking a cigar and regarding me thoughtfully with the old, familiar light of curiosity in his eyes "Well, have I convinced you?” he| demanded. "Here, take a drink of this. I want to ask you some questions.” I rolled my head negatively on the floor. “Your arguments are too—er—forcible,” I managed to articulate, at cost of great pain to my aching throat. “You’ll be all right in half an hour,” he assured me. “And I promise I won't qse any more physical demonstrations. Get up now. You can sit on a chair.” And, toy that I was of this monster, the discussion of Omar and the Preacher was resumed. And half the night we sat up over it

CHAPTER XI. The last twenty-four hours have witnessed a carnival of brutality. From cabin to forecastle it seems to have broken out like a contagion. Thomas Mugridge is a sneak, a spy, an informer. He has been attempting to curry favor and reinstate himsfelf in the good graces of the eaptain by carrying tales of the men forward. He it was, I know, that some of Johnson’s hasty talk to Wolf Larsen. Johnson, it seems, bought a suit of oilskins from the slop-chest and found them to be of greatly Inferior quality. Nor was he slow in advertising the fact I had just finished sweeping the cabin, and had been inveigled by Wolf Larsen into a discussion of Hamlet, his favorite Shakespearean character, when Johansen descended the companion stairs by Johnson.

The latter’s cap came off after the custom of the sea, and he stood respectfully in the center of the cabin, swaying heavily and uneasily to the roll of the schooner and facing the captain. “Shut the doors and draw the slide,” Wolf Larsen said to me. As I obeyed I noticed an anxious light come into Johnson’s eyes, but I did not dream of its cause. The mate. Johansen, stood away several feet to the side of him, and fully three yards in front of him sat Wolf Larsen on one of the pivotal cabin chairs. An appreciable pause fell, a pause that must have lasted fully a minute. It was broken by Wolf Larsen. “Yonson,” he began. “My name is Johnson, sir,” the sailor boldly corrected. “Well, Johnson, then, damn you! Can -you guess why I have sent for you?” “Yes, and no, sir,” was the slow reply. “My work is done well.. The mate knows shat, and you know it, sir. So there cannot be any complaint.” »■ “Johnson,” Wolf Larsen said, “I understand you’re not quite satisfied with those oilskins?” “No, I am not. They are no good, ' “And you’ve been shooting off your mouth about them.”

“I say what I think, sir,” the sailor answered courageously. It was at this moment that I chanced to glance at Johansen. His big fists were clenching and unclenching, and his face was positively fiendish, so malignantly did he look at Johnson. “Do you know what happens to men who say what you’ve said about my slop-chest and me?” Wolf Larsen demanded, sharply and imperatively. “What you and the mate there are going to do to me, sir.” “Look at him, Hump,” Wolf Larsen said to me, “look at this bit of animated dust, that is impressed with certain human fictions such as righteousness and honesty, and that will live up to them in spite of all personal discomforts and menaces. What do you think of him, Hump? What do you think of him?” “I think that he is a better man than you are,” I answered, Impelled, somehow, with a desire to draw upon myself a portion of the wrath I felt was about to break upon his head "His human fictions, as you choose to call them, make for nobility and manhood. You have no fictions, no dreams, no ideals. You are a pauper.” He nodded his head with savage pleasantness. “Quite true. Hump, quite true. I have no fictions that make for nobility and manhood. A living dog is better than a dead lion, say I with the Preacher. My only doctrine is the doctrine of expediency, and it makes for surviving. Do you know what I am going to do?” I shook my head. “Watch me.” Three yards away from Johnson he was, and sitting down. Nine feet! And yet he left the chair in full leap, without first gaining a standing position. It was an avalanche of fury

His Hand Was About My Throat and My Breath Was Shut Off.

that Johnson strove vainly to fend off. Wolf Larsen’s fist drove to the chest, with a crushing, resounding impact Johnson almost fell backward, And swayed from side to side in an effort to recover his balance. I cannot give the further particulars of the horrible scene that followed. It was too revolting. It turns me sick even now when I think of it Johnson fought bravely enough, but he was no match for Wolf Larsen, much less for Wolf Larsen and the mate, it was frightful. I felt that I should lose my mind, and I ran up the companion deck. But Wolf Larsen, leaving his victim for the moment, and with one' of his tremendous springs, gained my side and flung me into the far corner of the cabin. "The phenomena of life. Hump,” he girded at me. “Stay and watch it You may gather data on the immortal-

THE EVENING REPUBLICAN, RENSSELAER, IND.

I 1 A MAN WHO y UN HIS OWN Tittle world/ w

ity of the sbul. Besides, you know, we can’t hurt Johnson’s soul. It’s only the fleeting form we may demolish.” It seemed centuries —possibly it was no more than ten minutes that the beating continued. Wolf Larsen and Johansen were all about the poor fellow. And when he could no longer rise they still continued to beat and kick him where he lay. “Easy, Johansen; easy as she goes,” Wolf Larsen finally said. “Jerk open the doors, Hump,” I was commanded. I obeyed, and the two brutes picked up the senseless man like a sack of rubbish and hove him clear up the companion stairs, through the narrow doorway, and out on deck. The blood from his nose gushed in a scarlet stream over the feet of the helmsman, who was none other than Louis, his boat mate. But Louis took and gave a spoke and gazed imperturbably into the binnacle. Not so was the conduct of George Leach, the erstwhile cabin-boy. Fore and aft there was nothing that could have surprised us more than his consequent behavior. He it was that came up on the poop without orders and dragged Johnson forward, where he set about dressing his wounds as well as he could and making him comfortable.

Wolf Larsen was smoking a cigar and examining the patent log which the Ghost usually towed astern, but which had been hauled in for some purpose. Suddenly Leach’s voice earner to my ears. It was tense and hoarse with an overmastering rage./ I turned and saw him standing just beneath the break of the poop on the port side of the galley. His face was convulsed and white, his eyes were flashing, his clenched fists raised overhead. “May God damn your soul to hell, Wolf Larsen, only hell’s too good for you. you coward, you murderer, you pig!” was his opening salutation. I was thunderstruck. I looked for his instant annihilation. But it was not Wolf Larsen’s whim to annihilate him. He sauntered slowly forward to the break of the poop, and, leaning his elbow on the corner of the cabin, ghzed down thoughtfully and curiously at the excited boy.- — And the boy Indicted Wolf Larsen as he had never been indicted before. Each moment I looked, and everybody looked, for him to leap upon the boy and destroy him. But it was not his whim. His cigar went out, and he continued to gaze silently and curiously. Leach had worked himself into an ecstasy of impotent rage. “Pigl Pig! Pig!” he was reiterating at the top of his lungs. “Why don’t you come down and kill me, you murderer? Come on, you coward! Kill me! Kill me! Kill me!" It was at this stage that Thomas Mugridge’s erratic soul brought him into the scene. He turned to Leach, saying: “Such langwidge! Shockin’!" Leach’s rage was no longer impotent. Here at last was something ready to hand. And for the first time since the stabbing the cockney had appeared outside the galley without his knife. The words had barely left his mouth when he was knocked down by Leach. Three times he struggled to his feet, striving to gain the galley, and each time was knocked down. “Oh, Lord!” he cried. “’Elp! ’Elp! Tyke ’im aw’y, carn’t yer? Tyke ’im aw.'y! ” The hunters laughed from sheer relief. Tragedy had dwindled, the farce had begun. The sailors now crowded boldly aft, grinning and shuffling, to watch the pummelling of the hated cockney. And even I felt a great joy surge up within me. I confess that I delighted in thia beating Leach was giving to Thomas Mugridge, though it was as terrible, almost, as the one Mugridge had caused to be given to Johnson. But the expression of Wolf Larsen’s face never changed. The cockney strove in vain to protect himself from the infuriated boy. And in vain he strove to gain the shelter of the cabin. Blow followed blow with bewildering rapidity. He was knocked about like a shuttlecock, until, finally, like Johnson, he was beaten and kicked as he lay helpless on the deck. And no one interfered. But these two affairs were only the opening events of the day’s program. In the afternoon Smoke and Henderson fell foul of each other, and a fusillade of shots came up from the steerage, followed by a stampede of the other four hunters for the deck. A column of thick, acrid smoke—the kind always made by black powder—was arising through the open companionway, and down through it leaped Wolf Larsen. The sound of blows and scuffling came to our ears. Both men were wounded, and he was thrashing them both for having disobeyed his orders and crippled themselves in advance of the hunting season. In fact, they were badly wounded, and. having thrashed them, he proceeded to op* erate upon them in a rough surgical fashion and to dress their wounds./! served as assistant while he probed and cleansed the passages made by the bullets, and I saw the two men

endure his crude surgery without anesthetics and with no more to uphold them than a stiff tumbler of whisky. The second dog-watch and the day were wound up by a fight between Johansen and the lean, Yankee-looklng hunter, Latimer. It was caused by remarks of Latimer’s concerning the noises made by the mate in his sleep, and though Johansen was whipped, he kept the steerage awake for the rest of the night while he blissfully slumbered and fought the fight over and over again. As for myself, I was oppressed with nightmare. All my days had been passed in comparative ignorance of the animality of man. In fact, I had known life only in its intellectual phases. Brutality I had experienced, but it was the brutality of the intellect—the cutting sarcasm of Charley Furuseth, the cruel epigrams and occasional harsh witticisms of the fellows at the Bibelot, and the nasty remarks of some of the professors during my undergraduate days. That was all. Not for nothing had I been called “Sissy" Van Weyden, I thought, as I tossed restlessly on my bunk between one nightmare and another. And it seemed to me that my

“You Coward! You Murderer! You Pigl”

innocence of the realities of life had been complete indeed. I laughed bitterly to myself, and seemed to find in Wolf Larsen’s forbidding philosophy a more adequate explanation of life than I had found in my ojvn. (TO BE CONTINUED.)

CAT CAUSED MUCH TROUBLE

Family Pet Has Been Formally Cautioned that “The Cave” is Not ... Public Property.

Out in Woodruff place a number of small boys have banded together and done what most boys have done If they were real-for-sure boys—built a cave, says the Indianapolis News. Approaching this cave is a long underground tunnel about two feet square. What there is in this tunnel in the way of side chamDers and the like, the fathers and mothers never will know, but at the inside end of the tunnel is the den, about five feet square, built in a side hill and as dark as the most cavernous depths of a Wyandotte cave. One of the youngsters belonging to the band of cave dwellers hurried home from school the other afternoon, donned his cave outfit, and made for the tunnel. Crawlirig in flat on the ground, he made his way toward the den. Arriving thero, he heard a scrambling noise just ahead and two fiery spots loomed up in the darkness. His teeth chattered with fright. He couldn’t back away, ho was too frightened to go forward, and there was no chance of escape at either side. The fiery spots became active and the boy became panicky. Just what happened In there the outside w< rid will never know, but when the cat —it was the family cat — came out of the tunnel it was going some. No cat ever moved faster, and it didn’t stop until it had reachod a barn three lots away. And the boy—when he emerged his face was as white as the arctic snow and he was moving rapidly for the open. The next afternoon the boy painted a sign on which were the words: “The Cave” in white paint, on a blazing yellow back ground. Gazing proudly at the Sign he explained: “Now, if that fool cat can read, he’ll keep out of there.”

Hang Pictures at Once.

People who stand their family portraits against the walls while packing and unpacking their household goods, cause a great deal of broken glass, scratches and dents. The first thing to be done when moving into ypur new home, should be to hang the pictures any place, in order to get them out of the way, without waiting to choose a scheme of arrangement. This will prevent a great deal of breakage and other damage.

Help Wanted. ••Can I do anything for you?” asked the passing mbtorist of an exasperated man who was trying to change a tire while his wife, a woman of commanding appearance, stood by and g ave numerous directions. “Yes. indeed,” replied the exasperated man, as he mopped his brow. “My wife here is an ardent; suffragette. 1 wish you would talk to her about the cause until 1 get this tire on.”

Opportunity never troubles a man 11 there is nothina in him

Kin Hubbard Essays

Luck, Superstitions, Omens, Etc.

Some Time Ago I Heard a Young Man Wearin’ a Red Necktie an’ Barely Out o’ His Teens Remark, as He Placed a Thin, Pale Hand With Two Yellow Fingers t’ his Brow,-“I Haven’t Won a Game o’ Pool Since I went to Vincennes on Friday.”

By KIN HUBBARD.

Too many o’ us t’day attribute our failures an’ successes t’ luck. We re: gard good luck, next t’ a frock coat, as th’ most powerful agency in th’ realization of our fondest hopes. While it is true that some of us hustle an’ persevere an’ keep everlastin’ly at a thing, it is alius with a quiet inner consciousness that unless we win lucfc t’ our side our efforts, no matter how strenuous, will be in vain. So we have come t’ regard good luck as somethin’ without which we might as well be a minority stockholder. Accordin’ t’ th’ dictionary luck is that which chances t’ a person, whether fer good er evil; an event regarded as casual, an’ as affectin’ or tendin’ t’ affect a person’s interest or happiness, such as an ingrowin’ face, a well rounded figure, a fondness fer pool or a luxuriant growth o’ beard. O’ course ther are instances where people handicapped by ingrowin’ faces have been successes jest th’ same as ther’s isolated cases where a full flowin’ beard has met with disappointment. So while there is really little or no foundation fer th’ belief that luck guides our destinies, it is not difficult, however, t’ understand why th’ more amenable among us attach so much Importance t’ luck since so much that is considered necessary in roundin’ out a successful life is apparently missin’ in go many whose lives have been successful. Fer instance, how many times have we said, “I don’t see how that feller gits by,” or “How do you suppose she ever got married?” T’day th’ world is full o’ super-

Is Our Desire t’ See Niagary Falk on th’ Wane?

“EveFbuddy That Could Git Seven Dollars an’ a Linen Duster T’gether Set Out With a Light Heart an’ a Few Boiled Eggs t’ Visit th’ Country’s Greatest Aesthetic Asset. Girls Used t’ Git Married Jest t’ See Niagary Falls.”

What’s become of th’ ole time enthusiasm th* mere mention o’ Niagary Falls used t’ arouse? Who kin account fer our wanin’ desire t’ look upon th’ great natural wonder that wuz once th' shrine o’ countless thousands? Th’ time wuz when Niagary Falls wuz th’ goal o’ ever’ true American. It wuz th’ hight o’ ever’ feller’s ambition t’ reach th’ point jrhere he could shake th’ responsibilities o’ life long enough t’ visit th’ great cataract. It wuz regarded as a part o’ his education. Folks used t’ save up ter Niagary Falls instead o’ a rainy day. They were rated accordin’ t’ th’ number o times they had made th’ pilgrimage t th’ great scenic wonder. Ever’buddy that could git seven dollars an’ a linen duster t’gether set out with a light heart an’ a few boiled eggs t visit th country’s greatest aesthetic asset. Nobuddy thought o’ visitin’ th’ Holy Land without first droppin’ in on ole Niagary. Girls used t’ git married just t’ see Niagary Falls. T’day we’re all too apt t’ overlook th’ wonderful an’ beautiful about us in our craze fer somethin’ foreign. T’day some folks blush when they admit that they’ve seen Niagary Falls. Then they hurry t’ qualify th’ statement by addin’, in the same breath. “I stopped off an hour or so on my way t’ New York.” Jest think o’ th’ thousands who annually visit th’ Pyramids who have never even heard o’ Tonawanda, New York. Jest think o’ th’ high brows who pick up an’ trot off t’ Europe ever’ year thinkin’ that they kin see Niagary Falls any ole ttae. Jest think o’ th’ tourists o’ broad an’ narrow means who pour o’er th’ map day after day- searchin’ fer some new spot t’ visit who reason that Niagary keep an’ that—they -kin there when they can’t go anywhere else. How many Americans know, as they tumble o’er th’ ruins o’ Pompeii; that th’ length o’ th’ curved creast line o’ Horse Shoe Falls alone is twentysix thousand feet? How many Americus, as they stand awed an’ silent be-

stition. At th’ least calculation ther’s three times as many folks carryin’ buckeyes in ther pockets as ther wuz thousands o’ years before either Carthage or Tyre. Th’ other day I heard a feller wearin’ a rubber collar blame a black cat fer his humble position in life. I’ve heard spinsters with ther temples streaked with gray an’ reconciled t’ ther life o’ loneliness trace ther ill luck back thro’ th’ mist o’ years t’ an unguarded moment when, in th’ flush o’ young girlhood, they innocently accepted an opal ring. Some time ago I heard a young man wearin’ a red necktie an’ barely out o’ his teens remark, as he placed a thin pale hand with two yeller fingers t’ his brow, “I haven’t won a game o’ pool since I went t’ Vincennes on Friday.” ■

In th’ ole palmy days o’ th’ Loulslany Lottery superstition.wuz rampant an’ th’ one thing above all others that wuz regarded as th’ surest method o’ bringin’ good luck wuz t' rub a keg backed person on th’ keg an’ then hurry t’ th’ nearest pustoffice an’ send a dollar t’ New Orleans. Th’ superstition originated at Sidney, Ohio, an' spread so rapidly that lots o’ fellers haven’t got ther prizes yet. Ther’s many silly superstitions about walkin’ under a ladder, dryin o’ warts, upsettln’ th’ salt, seeln’ th’ moon over th’ left shoulder, breakin’ lookin’ glasses an’ settin’ down t’ dinner with thirteen, all pop’larly regarded as omens o’ some impendin’ calamity such as bustin’ a tire, sudden adversity, tall dark strangers enterin’ your life, early wedlock an’ th’ visit o* relatives.

fore th’ tomb o’ Napoleon, know that th’ rapids of Niagary River afford theoretic water power equal t’ fdur million hosses? Slght-seein’ like charity, should begin at home, but with th’ cornin’ of a little prosperity nothin’ll do but a tour abroad. So th’ wonders an beauties of America are fergotten in our rush fer th’ galleries an’ tombs an’ ruins o’ Europe. Sometimes we stop off in Washin’ton long enough t’ see where th’ father o’ our country is tucked away, but most o’ us seem t’ regard Niagary Falls as bein’ too close t* home t’ amount t’ anything. (Protected by Adams Newspaper Service.)

No Genius Biographer.

Biography has not yet bad her Shakespeare, her Dante, or even her Goethe; her supreme and only Boswell remains unapproached in the region where he dwells aloof from rivalry through such self-sacrifice as no other has been willing to make; but from Plutarch down, biography has had the advantage of every other muse in the absolute simplicity of her duty. After her choice of a hero, she has no choice but truth to the facts of his life, or any choice except between fullness or spareness in her devotion to them. If she is faithful to these, she will not have failed of her duty to her theme; and such is the charm of one man’s life to all other men, she will not have failed of the fascination which every muse likes to exercise upon mortals. —W. D. Howells.

A Foolish Notion,

“The critics say the last act of our play falls flat,” remarked the manager. “.Hum,” said the “angel,” can’t you you theatrical 'people talking so much about?” t>‘

New Use for Seaweed.

Seaweed is made into a composition to take the place of bone tor handles of cutlery.