mouth, I was inexpressibly shocked. The scorching torrent was
enough to wither the face of the corpse. I should not have been
surprised if the wet black beard had frizzled and curled and flared
up in smoke and flame. But the dead man was unconcerned. He
continued to grin with a sardonic humour, with a cynical mockery
and defiance. He was master of the situation.



CHAPTER III



Wolf Larsen ceased swearing as suddenly as he had begun. He
relighted his cigar and glanced around. His eyes chanced upon the
cook.

"Well, Cooky?" he began, with a suaveness that was cold and of the
temper of steel.

"Yes, sir," the cook eagerly interpolated, with appeasing and
apologetic servility.

"Don't you think you've stretched that neck of yours just about
enough? It's unhealthy, you know. The mate's gone, so I can't
afford to lose you too. You must be very, very careful of your
health, Cooky. Understand?"

His last word, in striking contrast with the smoothness of his
previous utterance, snapped like the lash of a whip. The cook