Chapter 24

by Jack London

　　Chapter XXIV

　　Among the most vivid memories of my life are those of the events onthe Ghost which occurred during the forty hours succeeding thediscovery of my love for Maud Brewster. I, who had lived my lifein quiet places, only to enter at the age of thirty-five upon acourse of the most irrational adventure I could have imagined,never had more incident and excitement crammed into any forty hoursof my experience. Nor can I quite close my ears to a small voiceof pride which tells me I did not do so badly, all thingsconsidered.

　　To begin with, at the midday dinner, Wolf Larsen informed thehunters that they were to eat thenceforth in the steerage. It wasan unprecedented thing on sealing-schooners, where it is the customfor the hunters to rank, unofficially as officers. He gave noreason, but his motive was obvious enough. Horner and Smoke hadbeen displaying a gallantry toward Maud Brewster, ludicrous initself and inoffensive to her, but to him evidently distasteful.

　　The announcement was received with black silence, though the otherfour hunters glanced significantly at the two who had been thecause of their banishment. Jock Horner, quiet as was his way, gaveno sign; but the blood surged darkly across Smoke's forehead, andhe half opened his mouth to speak. Wolf Larsen was watching him,waiting for him, the steely glitter in his eyes; but Smoke closedhis mouth again without having said anything.

　　"Anything to say?" the other demanded aggressively.

　　It was a challenge, but Smoke refused to accept it.

　　"About what?" he asked, so innocently that Wolf Larsen wasdisconcerted, while the others smiled.

　　"Oh, nothing," Wolf Larsen said lamely. "I just thought you mightwant to register a kick."

　　"About what?" asked the imperturbable Smoke.

　　Smoke's mates were now smiling broadly. His captain could havekilled him, and I doubt not that blood would have flowed had notMaud Brewster been present. For that matter, it was her presencewhich enabled. Smoke to act as he did. He was too discreet andcautious a man to incur Wolf Larsen's anger at a time when thatanger could be expressed in terms stronger than words. I was infear that a struggle might take place, but a cry from the helmsmanmade it easy for the situation to save itself.

　　"Smoke ho!" the cry came down the open companion-way.

　　"How's it bear?" Wolf Larsen called up.

　　"Dead astern, sir."

　　"Maybe it's a Russian," suggested Latimer.

　　His words brought anxiety into the faces of the other hunters. ARussian could mean but one thing - a cruiser. The hunters, nevermore than roughly aware of the position of the ship, neverthelessknew that we were close to the boundaries of the forbidden sea,while Wolf Larsen's record as a poacher was notorious. All eyescentred upon him.

　　"We're dead safe," he assured them with a laugh. "No salt minesthis time, Smoke. But I'll tell you what - I'll lay odds of fiveto one it's the Macedonia."

　　No one accepted his offer, and he went on: "In which event, I'lllay ten to one there's trouble breezing up."

　　"No, thank you," Latimer spoke up. "I don't object to losing mymoney, but I like to get a run for it anyway. There never was atime when there wasn't trouble when you and that brother of yoursgot together, and I'll lay twenty to one on that."

　　A general smile followed, in which Wolf Larsen joined, and thedinner went on smoothly, thanks to me, for he treated me abominablythe rest of the meal, sneering at me and patronizing me till I wasall a-tremble with suppressed rage. Yet I knew I must controlmyself for Maud Brewster's sake, and I received my reward when hereyes caught mine for a fleeting second, and they said, asdistinctly as if she spoke, "Be brave, be brave."

　　We left the table to go on deck, for a steamer was a welcome breakin the monotony of the sea on which we floated, while theconviction that it was Death Larsen and the Macedonia added to theexcitement. The stiff breeze and heavy sea which had sprung up theprevious afternoon had been moderating all morning, so that it wasnow possible to lower the boats for an afternoon's hunt. Thehunting promised to be profitable. We had sailed since daylightacross a sea barren of seals, and were now running into the herd.

　　The smoke was still miles astern, but overhauling us rapidly, whenwe lowered our boats. They spread out and struck a northerlycourse across the ocean. Now and again we saw a sail lower, heardthe reports of the shot-guns, and saw the sail go up again. Theseals were thick, the wind was dying away; everything favoured abig catch. As we ran off to get our leeward position of the lastlee boat, we found the ocean fairly carpeted with sleeping seals.They were all about us, thicker than I had ever seen them before,in twos and threes and bunches, stretched full length on thesurface and sleeping for all the world like so many lazy youngdogs.

　　Under the approaching smoke the hull and upper-works of a steamerwere growing larger. It was the Macedonia. I read her namethrough the glasses as she passed by scarcely a mile to starboard.Wolf Larsen looked savagely at the vessel, while Maud Brewster wascurious.

　　"Where is the trouble you were so sure was breezing up, CaptainLarsen?" she asked gaily.

　　He glanced at her, a moment's amusement softening his features.

　　"What did you expect? That they'd come aboard and cut ourthroats?"

　　"Something like that," she confessed. "You understand, seal-hunters are so new and strange to me that I am quite ready toexpect anything."

　　He nodded his head. "Quite right, quite right. Your error is thatyou failed to expect the worst."

　　"Why, what can be worse than cutting our throats?" she asked, withpretty naive surprise.

　　"Cutting our purses," he answered. "Man is so made these days thathis capacity for living is determined by the money he possesses."

　　"'Who steals my purse steals trash,'" she quoted.

　　"Who steals my purse steals my right to live," was the reply, "oldsaws to the contrary. For he steals my bread and meat and bed, andin so doing imperils my life. There are not enough soup-kitchensand bread-lines to go around, you know, and when men have nothingin their purses they usually die, and die miserably - unless theyare able to fill their purses pretty speedily."

　　"But I fail to see that this steamer has any designs on yourpurse."

　　"Wait and you will see," he answered grimly.

　　We did not have long to wait. Having passed several miles beyondour line of boats, the Macedonia proceeded to lower her own. Weknew she carried fourteen boats to our five (we were one shortthrough the desertion of Wainwright), and she began dropping themfar to leeward of our last boat, continued dropping them athwartour course, and finished dropping them far to windward of our firstweather boat. The hunting, for us, was spoiled. There were noseals behind us, and ahead of us the line of fourteen boats, like ahuge broom, swept the herd before it.

　　Our boats hunted across the two or three miles of water betweenthem and the point where the Macedonia's had been dropped, and thenheaded for home. The wind had fallen to a whisper, the ocean wasgrowing calmer and calmer, and this, coupled with the presence ofthe great herd, made a perfect hunting day - one of the two orthree days to be encountered in the whole of a lucky season. Anangry lot of men, boat-pullers and steerers as well as hunters,swarmed over our side. Each man felt that he had been robbed; andthe boats were hoisted in amid curses, which, if curses had power,would have settled Death Larsen for all eternity - "Dead and damnedfor a dozen iv eternities," commented Louis, his eyes twinkling upat me as he rested from hauling taut the lashings of his boat.

　　"Listen to them, and find if it is hard to discover the most vitalthing in their souls," said Wolf Larsen. "Faith? and love? andhigh ideals? The good? the beautiful? the true?"

　　"Their innate sense of right has been violated," Maud Brewstersaid, joining the conversation.

　　She was standing a dozen feet away, one hand resting on the main-shrouds and her body swaying gently to the slight roll of the ship.She had not raised her voice, and yet I was struck by its clear andbell-like tone. Ah, it was sweet in my ears! I scarcely daredlook at her just then, for the fear of betraying myself. A boy'scap was perched on her head, and her hair, light brown and arrangedin a loose and fluffy order that caught the sun, seemed an aureoleabout the delicate oval of her face. She was positivelybewitching, and, withal, sweetly spirituelle, if not saintly. Allmy old-time marvel at life returned to me at sight of this splendidincarnation of it, and Wolf Larsen's cold explanation of life andits meaning was truly ridiculous and laughable.

　　"A sentimentalist," he sneered, "like Mr. Van Weyden. Those menare cursing because their desires have been outraged. That is all.What desires? The desires for the good grub and soft beds ashorewhich a handsome pay-day brings them - the women and the drink, thegorging and the beastliness which so truly expresses them, the bestthat is in them, their highest aspirations, their ideals, if youplease. The exhibition they make of their feelings is not atouching sight, yet it shows how deeply they have been touched, howdeeply their purses have been touched, for to lay hands on theirpurses is to lay hands on their souls."

　　"'You hardly behave as if your purse had been touched," she said,smilingly.

　　"Then it so happens that I am behaving differently, for my purseand my soul have both been touched. At the current price of skinsin the London market, and based on a fair estimate of what theafternoon's catch would have been had not the Macedonia hogged it,the Ghost has lost about fifteen hundred dollars' worth of skins."

　　"You speak so calmly - " she began.

　　"But I do not feel calm; I could kill the man who robbed me," heinterrupted. "Yes, yes, I know, and that man my brother - moresentiment! Bah!"

　　His face underwent a sudden change. His voice was less harsh andwholly sincere as he said:

　　"You must be happy, you sentimentalists, really and truly happy atdreaming and finding things good, and, because you find some ofthem good, feeling good yourself. Now, tell me, you two, do youfind me good?"

　　"You are good to look upon - in a way," I qualified.

　　"There are in you all powers for good," was Maud Brewster's answer.

　　"There you are!" he cried at her, half angrily. "Your words areempty to me. There is nothing clear and sharp and definite aboutthe thought you have expressed. You cannot pick it up in your twohands and look at it. In point of fact, it is not a thought. Itis a feeling, a sentiment, a something based upon illusion and nota product of the intellect at all."

　　As he went on his voice again grew soft, and a confiding note cameinto it. "Do you know, I sometimes catch myself wishing that I,too, were blind to the facts of life and only knew its fancies andillusions. They're wrong, all wrong, of course, and contrary toreason; but in the face of them my reason tells me, wrong and mostwrong, that to dream and live illusions gives greater delight. Andafter all, delight is the wage for living. Without delight, livingis a worthless act. To labour at living and be unpaid is worsethan to be dead. He who delights the most lives the most, and yourdreams and unrealities are less disturbing to you and moregratifying than are my facts to me."

　　He shook his head slowly, pondering.

　　"I often doubt, I often doubt, the worthwhileness of reason.Dreams must be more substantial and satisfying. Emotional delightis more filling and lasting than intellectual delight; and,besides, you pay for your moments of intellectual delight by havingthe blues. Emotional delight is followed by no more than jadedsenses which speedily recuperate. I envy you, I envy you."

　　He stopped abruptly, and then on his lips formed one of his strangequizzical smiles, as he added:

　　"It's from my brain I envy you, take notice, and not from my heart.My reason dictates it. The envy is an intellectual product. I amlike a sober man looking upon drunken men, and, greatly weary,wishing he, too, were drunk."

　　"Or like a wise man looking upon fools and wishing he, too, were afool," I laughed.

　　"Quite so," he said. "You are a blessed, bankrupt pair of fools.You have no facts in your pocketbook."

　　"Yet we spend as freely as you," was Maud Brewster's contribution.

　　"More freely, because it costs you nothing."

　　"And because we draw upon eternity," she retorted.

　　"Whether you do or think you do, it's the same thing. You spendwhat you haven't got, and in return you get greater value fromspending what you haven't got than I get from spending what I havegot, and what I have sweated to get."

　　"Why don't you change the basis of your coinage, then?" she queriedteasingly.

　　He looked at her quickly, half-hopefully, and then said, allregretfully: "Too late. I'd like to, perhaps, but I can't. Mypocketbook is stuffed with the old coinage, and it's a stubbornthing. I can never bring myself to recognize anything else asvalid."

　　He ceased speaking, and his gaze wandered absently past her andbecame lost in the placid sea. The old primal melancholy wasstrong upon him. He was quivering to it. He had reasoned himselfinto a spell of the blues, and within few hours one could look forthe devil within him to be up and stirring. I remembered CharleyFuruseth, and knew this man's sadness as the penalty which thematerialist ever pays for his materialism.