Chapter 20

by Jack London

　　Chapter XX

　　The remainder of the day passed uneventfully. The young slip of agale, having wetted our gills, proceeded to moderate. The fourthengineer and the three oilers, after a warm interview with WolfLarsen, were furnished with outfits from the slop-chests, assignedplaces under the hunters in the various boats and watches on thevessel, and bundled forward into the forecastle. They wentprotestingly, but their voices were not loud. They were awed bywhat they had already seen of Wolf Larsen's character, while thetale of woe they speedily heard in the forecastle took the last bitof rebellion out of them.

　　Miss Brewster - we had learned her name from the engineer - slepton and on. At supper I requested the hunters to lower theirvoices, so she was not disturbed; and it was not till next morningthat she made her appearance. It had been my intention to have hermeals served apart, but Wolf Larsen put down his foot. Who was shethat she should be too good for cabin table and cabin society? hadbeen his demand.

　　But her coming to the table had something amusing in it. Thehunters fell silent as clams. Jock Horner and Smoke alone wereunabashed, stealing stealthy glances at her now and again, and eventaking part in the conversation. The other four men glued theireyes on their plates and chewed steadily and with thoughtfulprecision, their ears moving and wobbling, in time with their jaws,like the ears of so many animals.

　　Wolf Larsen had little to say at first, doing no more than replywhen 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 hadever known, and he was curious. He studied her, his eyes rarelyleaving her face unless to follow the movements of her hands orshoulders. I studied her myself, and though it was I whomaintained the conversation, I know that I was a bit shy, not quiteself-possessed. His was the perfect poise, the supreme confidencein self, which nothing could shake; and he was no more timid of awoman than he was of storm and battle.

　　"And when shall we arrive at Yokohama?" she asked, turning to himand looking him squarely in the eyes.

　　There it was, the question flat. The jaws stopped working, theears ceased wobbling, and though eyes remained glued on plates,each man listened greedily for the answer.

　　"In four months, possibly three if the season closes early," WolfLarsen said.

　　She caught her breath and stammered, "I - I thought - I was givento understand that Yokohama was only a day's sail away. It - "Here she paused and looked about the table at the circle ofunsympathetic faces staring hard at the plates. "It is not right,"she concluded.

　　"That is a question you must settle with Mr. Van Weyden there," hereplied, nodding to me with a mischievous twinkle. "Mr. Van Weydenis what you may call an authority on such things as rights. Now I,who am only a sailor, would look upon the situation somewhatdifferently. It may possibly be your misfortune that you have toremain with us, but it is certainly our good fortune."

　　He regarded her smilingly. Her eyes fell before his gaze, but shelifted them again, and defiantly, to mine. I read the unspokenquestion there: was it right? But I had decided that the part Iwas to play must be a neutral one, so I did not answer.

　　"What do you think?" she demanded.

　　"That it is unfortunate, especially if you have any engagementsfalling due in the course of the next several months. But, sinceyou say that you were voyaging to Japan for your health, I canassure you that it will improve no better anywhere than aboard theGhost."

　　I saw her eyes flash with indignation, and this time it was I whodropped mine, while I felt my face flushing under her gaze. It wascowardly, but what else could I do?

　　"Mr. Van Weyden speaks with the voice of authority," Wolf Larsenlaughed.

　　I nodded my head, and she, having recovered herself, waitedexpectantly.

　　"Not that he is much to speak of now," Wolf Larsen went on, "but hehas improved wonderfully. You should have seen him when he came onboard. A more scrawny, pitiful specimen of humanity one couldhardly conceive. Isn't that so, Kerfoot?"

　　Kerfoot, thus directly addressed, was startled into dropping hisknife 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 cameaboard. Also, he has legs to stand on. You would not think so tolook at him, but he was quite unable to stand alone at first."

　　The hunters were snickering, but she looked at me with a sympathyin her eyes which more than compensated for Wolf Larsen'snastiness. In truth, it had been so long since I had receivedsympathy that I was softened, and I became then, and gladly, herwilling slave. But I was angry with Wolf Larsen. He waschallenging my manhood with his slurs, challenging the very legs heclaimed to be instrumental in getting for me.

　　"I may have learned to stand on my own legs," I retorted. "But Ihave yet to stamp upon others with them."

　　He looked at me insolently. "Your education is only halfcompleted, then," he said dryly, and turned to her.

　　"We are very hospitable upon the Ghost. Mr. Van Weyden hasdiscovered 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," Ianswered, "to say nothing to wringing their necks out of veryfellowship."

　　"I beg of you not to receive false impressions of us from Mr. VanWeyden," he interposed with mock anxiety. "You will observe, MissBrewster, that he carries a dirk in his belt, a - ahem - a mostunusual thing for a ship's officer to do. While really veryestimable, Mr. Van Weyden is sometimes - how shall I say? - er -quarrelsome, and harsh measures are necessary. He is quitereasonable and fair in his calm moments, and as he is calm now hewill not deny that only yesterday he threatened my life."

　　I was well-nigh choking, and my eyes were certainly fiery. He drewattention to me.

　　"Look at him now. He can scarcely control himself in yourpresence. 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 thehunters burst into guffaws of laughter.

　　The deep-sea voices of these men, rumbling and bellowing in theconfined space, produced a wild effect. The whole setting waswild, and for the first time, regarding this strange woman andrealizing how incongruous she was in it, I was aware of how much apart of it I was myself. I knew these men and their mentalprocesses, was one of them myself, living the seal-hunting life,eating the seal-hunting fare, thinking, largely, the seal-huntingthoughts. There was for me no strangeness to it, to the roughclothes, the coarse faces, the wild laughter, and the lurchingcabin walls and swaying sea-lamps.

　　As I buttered a piece of bread my eyes chanced to rest upon myhand. The knuckles were skinned and inflamed clear across, thefingers swollen, the nails rimmed with black. I felt the mattress-like growth of beard on my neck, knew that the sleeve of my coatwas ripped, that a button was missing from the throat of the blueshirt I wore. The dirk mentioned by Wolf Larsen rested in itssheath on my hip. It was very natural that it should be there, -how natural I had not imagined until now, when I looked upon itwith her eyes and knew how strange it and all that went with itmust appear to her.

　　But she divined the mockery in Wolf Larsen's words, and againfavoured me with a sympathetic glance. But there was a look ofbewilderment also in her eyes. That it was mockery made thesituation more puzzling to her.

　　"I may be taken off by some passing vessel, perhaps," shesuggested.

　　"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. "Ihope it will not be too dreadful a hardship for you to makeyourself a dress or two."

　　She made a wry pucker with her mouth, as though to advertise herignorance of dressmaking. That she was frightened and bewildered,and that she was bravely striving to hide it, was quite plain tome.

　　"I suppose you're like Mr. Van Weyden there, accustomed to havingthings done for you. Well, I think doing a few things for yourselfwill hardly dislocate any joints. By the way, what do you do for aliving?"

　　She regarded him with amazement unconcealed.

　　"I mean no offence, believe me. People eat, therefore they mustprocure the wherewithal. These men here shoot seals in order tolive; 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 Icould see a terror dawning and growing in her eyes as she watchedWolf 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 poormen who are like me?"

　　"They send them to jail. The crime of not earning a living, intheir case, is called vagrancy. If I were Mr. Van Weyden, whoharps eternally on questions of right and wrong, I'd ask, by whatright 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 pathosof it cut me to the heart. I must in some way break in and leadthe conversation into other channels.

　　"Have you ever earned a dollar by your own labour?" he demanded,certain of her answer, a triumphant vindictiveness in his voice.

　　"Yes, I have," she answered slowly, and I could have laughed aloudat his crestfallen visage. "I remember my father giving me adollar once, when I was a little girl, for remaining absolutelyquiet for five minutes."

　　He smiled indulgently.

　　"But that was long ago," she continued. "And you would scarcelydemand a little girl of nine to earn her own living."

　　"At present, however," she said, after another slight pause, "Iearn about eighteen hundred dollars a year."

　　With one accord, all eyes left the plates and settled on her. Awoman who earned eighteen hundred dollars a year was worth lookingat. 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 fiftydollars a month. Well, Miss Brewster, there is nothing small aboutthe Ghost. Consider yourself on salary during the time you remainwith us."

　　She made no acknowledgment. She was too unused as yet to the whimsof the man to accept them with equanimity.

　　"I forgot to inquire," he went on suavely, "as to the nature ofyour occupation. What commodities do you turn out? What tools andmaterials do you require?"

　　"Paper and ink," she laughed. "And, oh! also a typewriter."

　　"You are Maud Brewster," I said slowly and with certainty, almostas 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'sturn to be puzzled. The name and its magic signified nothing tohim. I was proud that it did mean something to me, and for thefirst time in a weary while I was convincingly conscious of asuperiority over him.

　　"I remember writing a review of a thin little volume - " I hadbegun 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 ofrelief, and unaware that she had glanced that relief at WolfLarsen, "I am so glad."

　　"I remember the review," she went on hastily, becoming aware of theawkwardness of her remark; "that too, too flattering review."

　　"Not at all," I denied valiantly. "You impeach my sober judgmentand make my canons of little worth. Besides, all my brothercritics were with me. Didn't Lang include your 'Kiss Endured'among the four supreme sonnets by women in the English language?"

　　"But you called me the American Mrs. Meynell!"

　　"Was it not true?" I demanded.

　　"No, not that," she answered. "I was hurt."

　　"We can measure the unknown only by the known," I replied, in myfinest academic manner. "As a critic I was compelled to place you.You have now become a yardstick yourself. Seven of your thinlittle volumes are on my shelves; and there are two thickervolumes, the essays, which, you will pardon my saying, and I knownot which is flattered more, fully equal your verse. The time isnot far distant when some unknown will arise in England and thecritics will name her the English Maud Brewster."

　　"You are very kind, I am sure," she murmured; and the veryconventionality of her tones and words, with the host ofassociations it aroused of the old life on the other side of theworld, gave me a quick thrill - rich with remembrance but stingingsharp with home-sickness.

　　"And you are Maud Brewster," I said solemnly, gazing across at her.

　　"And you are Humphrey Van Weyden," she said, gazing back at me withequal solemnity and awe. "How unusual! I don't understand. Wesurely are not to expect some wildly romantic sea-story from yoursober pen."

　　"No, I am not gathering material, I assure you," was my answer. "Ihave neither aptitude nor inclination for fiction."

　　"Tell me, why have you always buried yourself in California?" shenext asked. "It has not been kind of you. We of the East haveseen to very little of you - too little, indeed, of the Dean ofAmerican Letters, the Second."

　　I bowed to, and disclaimed, the compliment. "I nearly met you,once, in Philadelphia, some Browning affair or other - you were tolecture, you know. My train was four hours late."

　　And then we quite forgot where we were, leaving Wolf Larsenstranded and silent in the midst of our flood of gossip. Thehunters left the table and went on deck, and still we talked. WolfLarsen alone remained. Suddenly I became aware of him, leaningback from the table and listening curiously to our alien speech ofa world he did not know.

　　I broke short off in the middle of a sentence. The present, withall its perils and anxieties, rushed upon me with stunning force.It smote Miss Brewster likewise, a vague and nameless terrorrushing into her eyes as she regarded Wolf Larsen.

　　He rose to his feet and laughed awkwardly. The sound of it wasmetallic.

　　"Oh, don't mind me," he said, with a self-depreciatory wave of hishand. "I don't count. Go on, go on, I pray you."

　　But the gates of speech were closed, and we, too, rose from thetable and laughed awkwardly.