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THE REMAINDER OF THE DAY passed uneventfully. The young slip
of a gale, having wetted our gills, proceeded to moderate. The
fourth engineer and the three oilers, after a warm interview with
Wolf Larsen, were furnished with outfits from the slop-chest,
assigned places under the hunters in the various boats and watches
on the vessel, and bundled forward into the forecastle. They went
protestingly, but their voices were not loud. They were awed by
what they had already seen of Wolf Larsen's character, while the
tale of woe they speedily heard in the forecastle took the last
bit of rebellion out of them.
Miss Brewster- we had learned her name from the engineer- slept
on and on. At supper I requested the hunters to lower their voices,
so she was not disturbed; and it was not till next morning that
she made her appearance. It had been my intention to have her
meals served apart, but Wolf Larsen put down his foot. Who was
she that she should be too good for cabin table and cabin society?
had been his demand.
But her coming to the table had something amusing in it. The
hunters fell as silent as clams. Jock Horner and Smoke alone were
unabashed, stealing stealthy glances at her now and again, and
even taking part in the conversation. The other four men glued
their eyes on their plates and chewed steadily and with thoughtful
precision, their ears moving and wabbling, in time with their
jaws, like the ears of so many animals.
Wolf Larsen had little to say at first, doing no more than
reply when he was addressed. Not that he was abashed. Far from
it. This woman was a new type to him, a different breed from any
he had ever known, and he was curious. He studied her, his eyes
rarely leaving her face, unless to follow the movements of her
hands or shoulders. I studied her myself, and though it was I
who maintained the conversation, I know that I was a bit shy,
not quite self-possessed. His was the perfect poise, the supreme
confidence in self which nothing could shake; and he was no more
timid of a woman than he was of storm and battle.
'And when shall we arrive at Yokohama?' she asked, turning
to him and looking him square in the eyes.
There it was, the question flat. The jaws stopped working,
the ears ceased wabbling, and though eyes remained on plates,
each man listened greedily for the answer.
'In four months, possibly three, if the season closes early,'
Wolf Larsen said. She caught her breath and stammered:
'I- I thought- I was given to understand that Yokohama was
only a day's sail away. It- ' Here she paused and looked about
the table at the circle of unsympathetic faces staring hard at
the plates. 'It is not right,' she concluded.
'That is a question you must settle with Mr. Van Weyden there,'
he replied, bowing to me with a mischievous twinkle. 'Mr. Van
Weyden is what you may call an authority on such things as rights.
Now I, who am only a sailor, would look upon the situation somewhat
differently. It may possibly be your misfortune that you have
to remain with us, but it is certainly our good fortune.'
He regarded her smilingly. Her eyes fell before his gaze, but
she lifted them again, and defiantly, to mine. I read the unspoken
question there: Was it right? But I had decided that the part
I was to play must be a neutral one, so I did not answer.
'What do you think?' she demanded.
'It is unfortunate,' I said, 'especially if you have any engagements
falling due in the course of the next several months. But, since
you say that you were voyaging to Japan for your health, I can
assure you that it will improve no better anywhere than aboard
the Ghost.'
I saw her eyes flash with indignation, and this time it was
I who dropped mine, while I felt my face flushing under her gaze.
It was cowardly, but what else could I do?
'Mr. Van Weyden speaks with the voice of authority.' Wolf Larsen
laughed.
I nodded my head and she, having recovered herself, waited
expectantly.
'Not that he is much to speak of now,' Wolf Larsen went on;
'but he has improved wonderfully. You should have seen him when
he came on board. A more scrawny, pitiful specimen of humanity
one could hardly conceive. Isn't that so, Kerfoot?'
Kerfoot, thus directly addressed, was startled into dropping
his knife on the floor, though he managed to grunt affirmation.
'Developed himself by peeling potatoes and washing dishes.
Eh, Kerfoot?'
Again that worthy grunted.
'Look at him now. True, he is not what you would term muscular,
but still he has muscles, which is more than he had when he came
aboard. Also, he has legs to stand on. You would not think so
to look at him, but he was quite unable to stand alone at first.'
The hunters were snickering, but she looked at me with a sympathy
in her eyes which more than compensated for Wolf Larsen's nastiness.
In truth, it had been so long since I had received sympathy that
I was softened, and I became then, and gladly, her willing slave.
But I was angry with Wolf Larsen. He was challenging my manhood
with his slurs, challenging the very legs he claimed to be instrumental
in getting for me.
'I may have learned to stand on my own legs,' I retorted. 'But
I have yet to stamp upon others with them.'
He looked at me insolently. 'Your education is only half completed,
then,' he said dryly, and turned to her. 'We are very hospitable
upon the Ghost. Mr. Van Weyden has discovered that. We do everything
to make our guests feel at home, eh, Mr. Van Weyden?'
'Even to the peeling of potatoes and the washing of dishes,'
I answered, 'to say nothing of wringing their necks, out of very
fellowship.'
'I beg of you not to receive false impressions of us from Mr.
Van Weyden,' he interposed with mock anxiety. 'You will observe,
Miss Brewster, that he carries a dirk in his belt, a- ahem- a
most unusual thing for a ship's officer to do. While really very
estimable, Mr. Van Weyden is sometimes- how shall I say?- er-
quarrelsome, and harsh measures are necessary. He is quite reasonable
and fair in his calm moments, and as he is calm now, he will not
deny that only yesterday he threatened my life.'
I was well-nigh choking, and my eyes were certainly fiery.
He drew attention to me.
'Look at him now. He can scarcely control himself in your presence.
He is not accustomed to the presence of ladies, anyway. I shall
have to arm myself before I dare go on deck with him.'
He shook his head sadly, murmuring, 'Too bad, too bad,' while
the hunters burst into guffaws of laughter.
The deep sea-voices of these men, rumbling and bellowing in
the confined space, produced a wild effect. The whole setting
was wild, and for the first time, regarding this strange woman
and realizing how incongruous she was in it, I was aware of how
much a part of it I was myself. I knew these men and their mental
processes, was one of them myself, living the seal-hunting life,
eating the seal-hunting fare, thinking largely the seal-hunting
thoughts. There was no strangeness to it, to the rough clothes,
the coarse faces, the wild laughter, and the lurching cabin walls
and swaying sea-lamps.
As I buttered a piece of bread and my eyes chanced to rest
upon my hand. The knuckles were skinned and inflamed clear across,
the fingers swollen, the nails rimmed with black. I felt the mattress-like
growth of beard on my neck, knew that the sleeve of my coat was
ripped, that a button was missing from the throat of the blue
shirt I wore. The dirk mentioned by Wolf Larsen rested in its
sheath on my hip. It was very natural that it should be there-
how natural I had not imagined until now, when I looked upon it
with her eyes and knew how strange it and all that went with it
must appear to her.
But she divined the mockery in Wolf Larsen's words, and again
favored me with a sympathetic glance. But there was a look of
bewilderment also in her eyes. That it was mockery made the situation
more puzzling to her.
'I may be taken off by some passing vessel, perhaps,' she suggested.
'There will be no passing vessels, except other sealing-schooners,'
Wolf Larsen made answer.
'I have no clothes, nothing,' she objected. 'You hardly realize,
sir, that I am not a man, or that I am unaccustomed to the vagrant,
careless life which you and your men seem to lead.'
'The sooner you get accustomed to it the better,' he said.
'I'll furnish you with cloth, needles, and thread,' he added.
'I hope it will not be too dreadful a hardship for you to make
yourself a dress or two.'
She made a wry pucker with her mouth, as though to advertise
her ignorance of dressmaking. That she was frightened and bewildered,
and that she was bravely striving to hide it, was quite plain
to me.
'I suppose you're like Mr. Van Weyden there, accustomed to
having things done for you. Well, I think doing a few things for
yourself will hardly dislocate any joints. By the way, what do
you for a living?'
She regarded him with amazement unconcealed.
'I mean no offense, believe me. People eat, therefore they
must procure the wherewithal. These men here shoot seals in order
to live; for the same reason I sail this schooner; and Mr. Van
Weyden, for the present at any rate, earns his salty grub by assisting
me. Now what do you do?'
She shrugged her shoulders.
'Do you feed yourself, or does some one else feed you?'
'I'm afraid some one else has fed me most of my life,' she
laughed, trying bravely to enter into the spirit of his quizzing,
though I could see a terror dawning and growing in her eyes as
she watched Wolf Larsen.
'And I suppose some one else makes your bed for you?'
'I have made beds,' she replied.
'Very often?'
She shook her head with mock ruefulness.
'Do you know what they do to poor men in the States who, like
you, do not work for their living?'
'I am very ignorant,' she pleaded. 'What do they do to the
poor men who are like me?'
'They send them to jail. The crime of not earning a living,
in their case, is called vagrancy. If I were Mr. Van Weyden, who
harps eternally on questions of right and wrong, I'd ask, By what
right do you live when you do nothing to deserve living?'
'But as you are not Mr. Van Weyden, I don't have to answer,
do I?'
She beamed upon him through her terror-filled eyes, and the
pathos of it cut me to the heart. I felt that I must in some way
break in and lead the conversation into other channels.
'Have you ever earned a dollar by your own labor?' he demanded,
certain of her answer, a triumphant vindictiveness in his voice.
'Yes, I have,' she answered slowly, and I could have laughed
aloud at his crestfallen visage. 'I remember my father giving
me a dollar once, when I was a little girl, for remaining absolutely
quiet for five minutes.'
He smiled indulgently.
'But that was long ago,' she continued. 'And you would scarcely
demand a little girl of nine to earn her own living. At present,
however,' she said, after another slight pause, 'I earn about
eighteen hundred dollars a year.'
With one accord all eyes left the plates and settled on her.
A woman who earned eighteen hundred dollars a year was worth looking
at. Wolf Larsen was undisguised in his admiration.
'Salary or piece-work?' he asked.
'Piece-work,' she answered promptly.
'Eighteen hundred,' he calculated. 'That's a hundred and fifty
dollars a month. Well, Miss Brewster, there is nothing small about
the Ghost. Consider yourself on salary during the time you remain
with us.'
She made no acknowledgment. She was too unused as yet to the
whims of the man to accept them with equanimity.
'I forgot to inquire,' he went on suavely, 'as to the nature
of your occupation. What commodities do you turn out? What tools
and materials do you require?'
'Paper and ink,' she laughed. 'And, oh! also a typewriter.'
'You are Maud Brewster,' I said slowly and with certainty,
almost as though I were charging her with a crime.
Her eyes lifted curiously to mine.
'How do you know?'
'Aren't you?' I demanded.
She acknowledged her identity with a nod. It was Wolf Larsen's
turn to be puzzled. The name and its magic signified nothing to
him. I was proud that it did mean something to me, and for the
first time in a weary while I was convincingly conscious of a
superiority over him.
'I remember writing a review of a thin little volume-' I had
begun carelessly, when she interrupted me.
'You!' she cried. 'You are-'
She was now staring at me in wide-eyed wonder.
I nodded my identity, in turn.
'Humphrey Van Weyden,' she concluded; then added, with a sigh
of relief and unaware that she had glanced that relief at Wolf
Larsen, 'I am so glad.'
'I remember the review,' she went on hastily, becoming aware
of the awkwardness of her remark, 'that too, too flattering review.'
'Not at all,' I denied valiantly. 'You impeach my sober judgment
and make my canons of little worth, Besides, all my brother critics
were with me.'
'You are very kind, I am sure, she murmured; and the very conventionality
of her tones and words, with the host of associations it aroused
of the old life on the other side of the world, gave me a quick
thrill- rich with rememberance but stinging sharp with homesickness.
'And you are Maud Brewster,' I said solemnly, gazing across
at her.
'And you are Humphrey Van Weyden,' she said, gazing back at
me with equal solemnity and awe. 'How unusual! I don't understand.
We surely are not to expect some wildly romantic sea-story from
your sober pen.'
'No, I am not gathering material, I assure you,' was my answer.
'I have neither aptitude nor inclination for fiction.'
'Tell me, why have you always buried yourself in California?'
she next asked. 'It has not been kind of you. We of the East have
seen so very little of you- too little indeed of the Dean of American
Letters the Second.'
I bowed to, and disclaimed, the compliment.
'I nearly met you, once, in Philadelphia, some Browning affair
or other- you were to lecture, you know. My train was four hours
late.'
And then we quite forgot where we were, leaving Wolf Larsen
stranded and silent in the midst of our flood of gossip. The hunters
left the table and went on deck, and still we talked. Wolf Larsen
alone remained. Suddenly I became aware of him, leaning back from
the table and listening curiously to our alien speech of a world
he did not know.
I broke short off in the middle of a sentence. The present,
with all its perils and anxieties, rushed upon me with stunning
force. It smote Miss Brewster likewise, a vague and nameless terror
rushing into her eyes as she regarded Wolf Larsen.
He rose to his feet and laughed awkwardly. The sound of it
was metallic.
'Oh, don't mind me,' he said, with a self-depreciatory wave
of his hand.
'I don't count. Go on, go on, I pray you.'
But the gates of speech were closed, and we, too, rose from
the table and laughed awkwardly.
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