the two best men in the ship, and the game was with them. All the rest
of the day Falk saw no one and heard no sound. At night he strained his
eyes. It was dark--he heard a rustling noise once, but he was certain
that no one could have come near the pump. It was to the left of his
deck port, and he could not have failed to see a man, for the night was
clear and starry. He saw nothing; towards morning another faint noise
made him suspicious. Deliberately and quietly he unlocked his door. He
had not slept, and had not given way to the horror of the situation. He
wanted to live.

But during the night the carpenter, without at all trying to approach
the pump, had managed to creep quietly along the starboard bulwark, and,
unseen, had crouched down right under Falk's deck port. When daylight
came he rose up suddenly, looked in, and putting his arm through the
round brass framed opening, fired at Falk within a foot. He missed--and
Falk, instead of attempting to seize the arm holding the weapon, opened
his door unexpectedly, and with the muzzle of his long revolver nearly
touching the other's side, shot him dead.

The best man had survived. Both of them had at the beginning just
strength enough to stand on their feet, and both had displayed pitiless
resolution, endurance, cunning and courage--all the qualities of classic
heroism. At once Falk threw overboard the captain's revolver. He was a
born monopolist. Then after the report of the two shots, followed by a
profound silence, there crept out into the cold, cruel dawn of Antarctic
regions, from various hiding-places, over the deck of that dismantled
corpse of a ship floating on a grey sea ruled by iron necessity and with
a heart of ice--there crept into view one by one, cautious, slow, eager,
glaring, and unclean, a band of hungry and livid skeletons. Falk faced
them, the possessor of the only fire-arm on board, and the second best