Chapter 9

by Jack London

　　Chapter IX

　　Three days of rest, three blessed days of rest, are what I had withWolf Larsen, eating at the cabin table and doing nothing butdiscuss life, literature, and the universe, the while ThomasMugridge 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'swarning, given during a spare half-hour on deck while Wolf Larsenwas engaged in straightening out a row among the hunters.

　　"Ye can't tell what'll be happenin'," Louis went on, in response tomy query for more definite information. "The man's as contrary asair currents or water currents. You can never guess the ways ivhim. 'Tis just as you're thinkin' you know him and are makin' afavourable slant along him, that he whirls around, dead ahead andcomes howlin' down upon you and a-rippin' all iv your fine-weathersails to rags."

　　So I was not altogether surprised when the squall foretold by Louissmote me. We had been having a heated discussion, - upon life, ofcourse, - and, grown over-bold, I was passing stiff strictures uponWolf Larsen and the life of Wolf Larsen. In fact, I wasvivisecting him and turning over his soul-stuff as keenly andthoroughly as it was his custom to do it to others. It may be aweakness of mine that I have an incisive way of speech; but I threwall restraint to the winds and cut and slashed until the whole manof him was snarling. The dark sun-bronze of his face went blackwith wrath, his eyes were ablaze. There was no clearness or sanityin them - nothing but the terrific rage of a madman. It was thewolf in him that I saw, and a mad wolf at that.

　　He sprang for me with a half-roar, gripping my arm. I had steeledmyself to brazen it out, though I was trembling inwardly; but theenormous strength of the man was too much for my fortitude. He hadgripped me by the biceps with his single hand, and when that griptightened I wilted and shrieked aloud. My feet went out from underme. I simply could not stand upright and endure the agony. Themuscles refused their duty. The pain was too great. My biceps wasbeing crushed to a pulp.

　　He seemed to recover himself, for a lucid gleam came into his eyes,and he relaxed his hold with a short laugh that was more like agrowl. 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 Iwrithed about I could see in his eyes that curiosity I had so oftennoted, that wonder and perplexity, that questing, that everlastingquery 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 tothe galley. My left arm was numb, as though paralysed, and dayspassed before I could use it, while weeks went by before the laststiffness and pain went out of it. And he had done nothing but puthis hand upon my arm and squeeze. There had been no wrenching orjerking. He had just closed his hand with a steady pressure. Whathe might have done I did not fully realize till next day, when heput his head into the galley, and, as a sign of renewedfriendliness, 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 wasfair-sized, firm, and unpeeled. He closed his hand upon it,squeezed, and the potato squirted out between his fingers in mushystreams. The pulpy remnant he dropped back into the pan and turnedaway, and I had a sharp vision of how it might have fared with mehad the monster put his real strength upon me.

　　But the three days' rest was good in spite of it all, for it hadgiven my knee the very chance it needed. It felt much better, theswelling had materially decreased, and the cap seemed descendinginto its proper place. Also, the three days' rest brought thetrouble I had foreseen. It was plainly Thomas Mugridge's intentionto make me pay for those three days. He treated me vilely, cursedme continually, and heaped his own work upon me. He even venturedto raise his fist to me, but I was becoming animal-like myself, andI snarled in his face so terribly that it must have frightened himback. It is no pleasant picture I can conjure up of myself,Humphrey Van Weyden, in that noisome ship's galley, crouched in acorner over my task, my face raised to the face of the creatureabout to strike me, my lips lifted and snarling like a dog's, myeyes gleaming with fear and helplessness and the courage that comesof fear and helplessness. I do not like the picture. It remindsme too strongly of a rat in a trap. I do not care to think of it;but it was elective, for the threatened blow did not descend.

　　Thomas Mugridge backed away, glaring as hatefully and viciously asI glared. A pair of beasts is what we were, penned together andshowing our teeth. He was a coward, afraid to strike me because Ihad not quailed sufficiently in advance; so he chose a new way tointimidate me. There was only one galley knife that, as a knife,amounted to anything. This, through many years of service andwear, had acquired a long, lean blade. It was unusually cruel-looking, and at first I had shuddered every time I used it. Thecook borrowed a stone from Johansen and proceeded to sharpen theknife. He did it with great ostentation, glancing significantly atme the while. He whetted it up and down all day long. Every oddmoment he could find he had the knife and stone out and waswhetting away. The steel acquired a razor edge. He tried it withthe ball of his thumb or across the nail. He shaved hairs from theback of his hand, glanced along the edge with microscopicacuteness, and found, or feigned that he found, always, a slightinequality in its edge somewhere. Then he would put it on thestone again and whet, whet, whet, 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, likemine, that would impel him to do the very thing his whole natureprotested against doing and was afraid of doing. "Cooky'ssharpening his knife for Hump," was being whispered about among thesailors, and some of them twitted him about it. This he took ingood part, and was really pleased, nodding his head with direfulforeknowledge 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 off to douseMugridge after his game of cards with the captain. Leach hadevidently done his task with a thoroughness that Mugridge had notforgiven, for words followed and evil names involving smirchedancestries. Mugridge menaced with the knife he was sharpening forme. Leach laughed and hurled more of his Telegraph HillBillingsgate, and before either he or I knew what had happened, hisright arm had been ripped open from elbow to wrist by a quick slashof the knife. The cook backed away, a fiendish expression on hisface, the knife held before him in a position of defence. ButLeach took it quite calmly, though blood was spouting upon the deckas generously as water from a fountain.

　　"I'm goin' to get you, Cooky," he said, "and I'll get you hard.And I won't be in no hurry about it. You'll be without that knifewhen I come for you."

　　So saying, he turned and walked quietly forward. Mugridge's facewas livid with fear at what he had done and at what he might expectsooner or later from the man he had stabbed. But his demeanourtoward me was more ferocious than ever. In spite of his fear atthe reckoning he must expect to pay for what he had done, he couldsee that it had been an object-lesson to me, and he became moredomineering and exultant. Also there was a lust in him, akin tomadness, which had come with sight of the blood he had drawn. Hewas beginning to see red in whatever direction he looked. Thepsychology of it is sadly tangled, and yet I could read theworkings of his mind as clearly as though it were a printed book.

　　Several days went by, the Ghost still foaming down the trades, andI could swear I saw madness growing in Thomas Mugridge's eyes. AndI confess that I became afraid, very much afraid. Whet, whet,whet, it went all day long. The look in his eyes as he felt thekeen edge and glared at me was positively carnivorous. I wasafraid to turn my shoulder to him, and when I left the galley Iwent out backwards - to the amusement of the sailors and hunters,who made a point of gathering in groups to witness my exit. Thestrain was too great. I sometimes thought my mind would give wayunder it - a meet thing on this ship of madmen and brutes. Everyhour, every minute of my existence was in jeopardy. I was a humansoul in distress, and yet no soul, fore or aft, betrayed sufficientsympathy to come to my aid. At times I thought of throwing myselfon the mercy of Wolf Larsen, but the vision of the mocking devil inhis eyes that questioned life and sneered at it would come strongupon me and compel me to refrain. At other times I seriouslycontemplated suicide, and the whole force of my hopeful philosophywas required to keep me from going over the side in the darkness ofnight.

　　Several times Wolf Larsen tried to inveigle me into discussion, butI gave him short answers and eluded him. Finally, he commanded meto resume my seat at the cabin table for a time and let the cook domy work. Then I spoke frankly, telling him what I was enduringfrom Thomas Mugridge because of the three days of favouritism whichhad been shown me. Wolf Larsen regarded me with smiling eyes.

　　"So you're afraid, eh?" he sneered.

　　"Yes," I said defiantly and honestly, "I am afraid."

　　"That's the way with you fellows," he cried, half angrily,"sentimentalizing about your immortal souls and afraid to die. Atsight of a sharp knife and a cowardly Cockney the clinging of lifeto life overcomes all your fond foolishness. Why, my dear fellow,you will live for ever. You are a god, and God cannot be killed.Cooky cannot hurt you. You are sure of your resurrection. What'sthere to be afraid of?

　　"You have eternal life before you. You are a millionaire inimmortality, and a millionaire whose fortune cannot be lost, whosefortune is less perishable than the stars and as lasting as spaceor time. It is impossible for you to diminish your principal.Immortality is a thing without beginning or end. Eternity iseternity, and though you die here and now you will go on livingsomewhere else and hereafter. And it is all very beautiful, thisshaking off of the flesh and soaring of the imprisoned spirit.Cooky cannot hurt you. He can only give you a boost on the pathyou eternally must tread.

　　"Or, if you do not wish to be boosted just yet, why not boostCooky? According to your ideas, he, too, must be an immortalmillionaire. You cannot bankrupt him. His paper will alwayscirculate at par. You cannot diminish the length of his living bykilling him, for he is without beginning or end. He's bound to goon living, somewhere, somehow. Then boost him. Stick a knife inhim and let his spirit free. As it is, it's in a nasty prison, andyou'll do him only a kindness by breaking down the door. And whoknows? - it may be a very beautiful spirit that will go soaring upinto the blue from that ugly carcass. Boost him along, and I'llpromote you to his place, and he's getting forty-five dollars amonth."

　　It was plain that I could look for no help or mercy from WolfLarsen. Whatever was to be done I must do for myself; and out ofthe courage of fear I evolved the plan of fighting Thomas Mugridgewith his own weapons. I borrowed a whetstone from Johansen.Louis, the boat-steerer, had already begged me for condensed milkand sugar. The lazarette, where such delicacies were stored, wassituated beneath the cabin floor. Watching my chance, I stole fivecans of the milk, and that night, when it was Louis's watch ondeck, I traded them with him for a dirk as lean and cruel-lookingas Thomas Mugridge's vegetable knife. It was rusty and dull, but Iturned the grindstone while Louis gave it an edge. I slept moresoundly than usual that night.

　　Next morning, after breakfast, Thomas Mugridge began his whet,whet, whet. I glanced warily at him, for I was on my knees takingthe ashes from the stove. When I returned from throwing themoverside, he was talking to Harrison, whose honest yokel's face wasfilled with fascination and wonder.

　　"Yes," Mugridge was saying, "an' wot does 'is worship do but giveme two years in Reading. But blimey if I cared. The other mug wasfixed plenty. Should 'a seen 'im. Knife just like this. I stuckit in, like into soft butter, an' the w'y 'e squealed was better'na tu-penny gaff." He shot a glance in my direction to see if I wastaking it in, and went on. "'I didn't mean it Tommy,' 'e wassnifflin'; 'so 'elp me Gawd, I didn't mean it!' "'I'll fix yerbloody well right,' I sez, an' kept right after 'im. I cut 'im inribbons, that's wot I did, an' 'e a-squealin' all the time. Once'e got 'is 'and on the knife an' tried to 'old it. 'Ad 'is fingersaround it, but I pulled it through, cuttin' to the bone. O, 'e wasa sight, I can tell yer."

　　A call from the mate interrupted the gory narrative, and Harrisonwent aft. Mugridge sat down on the raised threshold to the galleyand went on with his knife-sharpening. I put the shovel away andcalmly sat down on the coal-box facing him. He favoured me with avicious stare. Still calmly, though my heart was going pitapat, Ipulled out Louis's dirk and began to whet it on the stone. I hadlooked for almost any sort of explosion on the Cockney's part, butto my surprise he did not appear aware of what I was doing. Hewent on whetting his knife. So did I. And for two hours we satthere, face to face, whet, whet, whet, till the news of it spreadabroad and half the ship's company was crowding the galley doors tosee the sight.

　　Encouragement and advice were freely tendered, and Jock Horner, thequiet, self-spoken hunter who looked as though he would not harm amouse, advised me to leave the ribs alone and to thrust upward forthe abdomen, at the same time giving what he called the "Spanishtwist" to the blade. Leach, his bandaged arm prominently to thefore, begged me to leave a few remnants of the cook for him; andWolf Larsen paused once or twice at the break of the poop to glancecuriously at what must have been to him a stirring and crawling ofthe yeasty thing he knew as life.

　　And I make free to say that for the time being life assumed thesame sordid values to me. There was nothing pretty about it,nothing divine - only two cowardly moving things that sat whettingsteel upon stone, and a group of other moving things, cowardly andotherwise, that looked on. Half of them, I am sure, were anxiousto see us shedding each other's blood. It would have beenentertainment. And I do not think there was one who would haveinterfered had we closed in a death-struggle.

　　On the other hand, the whole thing was laughable and childish.Whet, whet, whet, - Humphrey Van Weyden sharpening his knife in aship's galley and trying its edge with his thumb! Of allsituations this was the most inconceivable. I know that my ownkind could not have believed it possible. I had not been called"Sissy" Van Weyden all my days without reason, and that "Sissy" VanWeyden should be capable of doing this thing was a revelation toHumphrey Van Weyden, who knew not whether to be exultant orashamed.

　　But nothing happened. At the end of two hours Thomas Mugridge putaway 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 bea-seein' us cuttin' our throats. Yer not 'arf bad, 'Ump! You'vegot spunk, as you Yanks s'y, an' I like yer in a w'y. So come onan' shyke."

　　Coward that I might be, I was less a coward than he. It was adistinct victory I had gained, and I refused to forego any of it byshaking his detestable hand.

　　"All right," he said pridelessly, "tyke it or leave it, I'll likeyer none the less for it." And to save his face he turned fiercelyupon the onlookers. "Get outa my galley-doors, you bloomin'swabs!"

　　This command was reinforced by a steaming kettle of water, and atsight of it the sailors scrambled out of the way. This was a sortof victory for Thomas Mugridge, and enabled him to accept moregracefully the defeat I had given him, though, of course, he wastoo discreet to attempt to drive the hunters away.

　　"I see Cooky's finish," I heard Smoke say to Horner.

　　"You bet," was the reply. "Hump runs the galley from now on, andCooky pulls in his horns."

　　Mugridge heard and shot a swift glance at me, but I gave no signthat the conversation had reached me. I had not thought my victorywas so far-reaching and complete, but I resolved to let go nothingI had gained. As the days went by, Smoke's prophecy was verified.The Cockney became more humble and slavish to me than even to WolfLarsen. I mistered him and sirred him no longer, washed no moregreasy pots, and peeled no more potatoes. I did my own work, andmy own work only, and when and in what fashion I saw fit. Also Icarried the dirk in a sheath at my hip, sailor-fashion, andmaintained toward Thomas Mugridge a constant attitude which wascomposed of equal parts of domineering, insult, and contempt.