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Elisha Cuthbert Photos Books: Martin Eden The Pickwick Papers The Sea Wolf |
saw--Wolf Larsen. What of my impetus and the stunning
surprise, I clattered three or four steps along the deck before I
could stop myself. He was standing in the companion-way, only his
head and shoulders visible, staring straight at me. His arms were
resting on the half-open slide. He made no movement whatever--
simply stood there, staring at me.
I began to tremble. The old stomach sickness clutched me. I put
one hand on the edge of the house to steady myself. My lips seemed
suddenly dry and I moistened them against the need of speech. Nor
did I for an instant take my eyes off him. Neither of us spoke.
There was something ominous in his silence, his immobility. All my
old fear of him returned and by new fear was increased an hundred-
fold. And still we stood, the pair of us, staring at each other.
I was aware of the demand for action, and, my old helplessness
strong upon me, I was waiting for him to take the initiative.
Then, as the moments went by, it came to me that the situation was
analogous to the one in which I had approached the long-maned bull,
my intention of clubbing obscured by fear until it became a desire
to make him run. So it was at last impressed upon me that I was
there, not to have Wolf Larsen take the initiative, but to take it
myself.
I cocked both barrels and levelled the shot-gun at him. Had he
moved, attempted to drop down the companion-way, I know I would
have shot him. But he stood motionless and staring as before. And
as I faced him, with levelled gun shaking in my hands, I had time
to note the worn and haggard appearance of his face. It was as if
some strong anxiety had wasted it. The cheeks were sunken, and
there was a wearied, puckered expression on the brow. And it
seemed to me that his eyes were strange, not only the expression,
but the physical seeming, as though the optic nerves and supporting
muscles had suffered strain and slightly twisted the eyeballs.
All this I saw, and my brain now working rapidly, I thought a
thousand thoughts; and yet I could not pull the triggers. I
lowered the gun and stepped to the corner of the cabin, primarily
to relieve the tension on my nerves and to make a new start, and
incidentally to be closer. Again I raised the gun. He was almost
at arms length. There was no hope for him. I was resolved.
There was no possible chance of missing him, no matter how poor my
marksmanship. And yet I wrestled with myself and could not pull
the triggers.
"Well?" he demanded impatiently.
I strove vainly to force my fingers down on the triggers, and
vainly I strove to say something.
"Why dont you shoot?" he asked.
I cleared my throat of a huskiness which prevented speech. "Hump,"
he said slowly, "you cant do it. You are not exactly afraid. You
are impotent. Your conventional morality is stronger than you.
You are the slave to the opinions which have credence among the
people you have known and have read about. Their code has been
drummed into your head from the time you lisped, and in spite of
your philosophy, and of what I have taught you, it wont let you
kill an unarmed, unresisting man."
"I know it," I said hoarsely.
"And you know that I would kill an unarmed man as readily as I
would smoke a cigar," he went on. "You know me for what I am,--my
worth in the world by your standard. You have called me snake,
tiger, shark, monster, and Caliban. And yet, you little rag
puppet, you little echoing mechanism, you are unable to kill me as
you would a snake or a shark, because I have hands, feet, and a
body shaped somewhat like yours. Bah! I had hoped better things of
you, Hump."
He stepped out of the companion-way and came up to me.
"Put down that gun. I want to ask you some questions. I havent
had a chance to look around yet. What place is this? How is the
Ghost lying? How did you get wet? Wheres Maud?--I beg your
pardon, Miss Brewster--or should I say, Mrs. Van Weyden?"
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