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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
.
"
Do
n't
you
think
you
've
stretched
that
neck
of
yours
just
about
enough
?
It
's
unhealthy
,
you
know
.
The
mate
's
gone
,
so
I
ca
n'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
quailed
under
it
.
"
Yes
,
sir
,
"
was
the
meek
reply
,
as
the
offending
head
disappeared
into
the
galley
.
At
this
sweeping
rebuke
,
which
the
cook
had
only
pointed
,
the
rest
of
the
crew
became
uninterested
and
fell
to
work
at
one
task
or
another
.
A
number
of
men
,
however
,
who
were
lounging
about
a
companion-way
between
the
galley
and
hatch
,
and
who
did
not
seem
to
be
sailors
,
continued
talking
in
low
tones
with
one
another
.
These
,
I
afterward
learned
,
were
the
hunters
,
the
men
who
shot
the
seals
,
and
a
very
superior
breed
to
common
sailor-folk
.
"
Johansen
!
"
Wolf
Larsen
called
out
.
A
sailor
stepped
forward
obediently
.
"
Get
your
palm
and
needle
and
sew
the
beggar
up
.
You
'll
find
some
old
canvas
in
the
sail-locker
.
Make
it
do
.
"
"
What
'll
I
put
on
his
feet
,
sir
?
"
the
man
asked
,
after
the
customary
"
Ay
,
ay
,
sir
.
"
"
We
'll
see
to
that
,
"
Wolf
Larsen
answered
,
and
elevated
his
voice
in
a
call
of
"
Cooky
!
"
