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- Джек Лондон
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You
were
afraid
to
die
;
the
life
that
was
in
you
,
that
composes
you
,
that
is
greater
than
you
,
did
not
want
to
die
.
You
have
talked
of
the
instinct
of
immortality
.
I
talk
of
the
instinct
of
life
,
which
is
to
live
,
and
which
,
when
death
looms
near
and
large
,
masters
the
instinct
,
so
called
,
of
immortality
.
It
mastered
it
in
you
(
you
can
not
deny
it
)
,
because
a
crazy
Cockney
cook
sharpened
a
knife
.
"
You
are
afraid
of
him
now
.
You
are
afraid
of
me
.
You
can
not
deny
it
.
If
I
should
catch
you
by
the
throat
,
thus
,
"
--
his
hand
was
about
my
throat
and
my
breath
was
shut
off
--
"
and
began
to
press
the
life
out
of
you
thus
,
and
thus
,
your
instinct
of
immortality
will
go
glimmering
,
and
your
instinct
of
life
,
which
is
longing
for
life
,
will
flutter
up
,
and
you
will
struggle
to
save
yourself
.
Eh
?
I
see
the
fear
of
death
in
your
eyes
.
You
beat
the
air
with
your
arms
.
You
exert
all
your
puny
strength
to
struggle
to
live
.
Your
hand
is
clutching
my
arm
,
lightly
it
feels
as
a
butterfly
resting
there
.
Your
chest
is
heaving
,
your
tongue
protruding
,
your
skin
turning
dark
,
your
eyes
swimming
.
'
To
live
!
To
live
!
To
live
!
'
you
are
crying
;
and
you
are
crying
to
live
here
and
now
,
not
hereafter
.
You
doubt
your
immortality
,
eh
?
Ha
!
ha
!
You
are
not
sure
of
it
.
You
wo
n't
chance
it
.
This
life
only
you
are
certain
is
real
.
Ah
,
it
is
growing
dark
and
darker
.
It
is
the
darkness
of
death
,
the
ceasing
to
be
,
the
ceasing
to
feel
,
the
ceasing
to
move
,
that
is
gathering
about
you
,
descending
upon
you
,
rising
around
you
.
Your
eyes
are
becoming
set
.
They
are
glazing
.
My
voice
sounds
faint
and
far
You
can
not
see
my
face
.
And
still
you
struggle
in
my
grip
.
You
kick
with
your
legs
.
Your
body
draws
itself
up
in
knots
like
a
snake
's
.
Your
chest
heaves
and
strains
.
To
live
!
To
live
!
To
live
--
"
I
heard
no
more
.
Consciousness
was
blotted
out
by
the
darkness
he
had
so
graphically
described
,
and
when
I
came
to
myself
I
was
lying
on
the
floor
and
he
was
smoking
a
cigar
and
regarding
me
thoughtfully
with
that
old
familiar
light
of
curiosity
in
his
eyes
.
"
Well
,
have
I
convinced
you
?
"
he
demanded
.
"
Here
take
a
drink
of
this
.
I
want
to
ask
you
some
questions
.
"
I
rolled
my
head
negatively
on
the
floor
.
"
Your
arguments
are
too
--
er
--
forcible
,
"
I
managed
to
articulate
,
at
cost
of
great
pain
to
my
aching
throat
.
"
You
'll
be
all
right
in
half-an-hour
,
"
he
assured
me
.
"
And
I
promise
I
wo
n't
use
any
more
physical
demonstrations
.
Get
up
now
.
You
can
sit
on
a
chair
.
"
And
,
toy
that
I
was
of
this
monster
,
the
discussion
of
Omar
and
the
Preacher
was
resumed
.
And
half
the
night
we
sat
up
over
it
.
The
last
twenty-four
hours
have
witnessed
a
carnival
of
brutality
.
From
cabin
to
forecastle
it
seems
to
have
broken
out
like
a
contagion
.
I
scarcely
know
where
to
begin
.
Wolf
Larsen
was
really
the
cause
of
it
.
The
relations
among
the
men
,
strained
and
made
tense
by
feuds
,
quarrels
and
grudges
,
were
in
a
state
of
unstable
equilibrium
,
and
evil
passions
flared
up
in
flame
like
prairie-grass
.
Thomas
Mugridge
is
a
sneak
,
a
spy
,
an
informer
.
He
has
been
attempting
to
curry
favour
and
reinstate
himself
in
the
good
graces
of
the
captain
by
carrying
tales
of
the
men
forward
.
He
it
was
,
I
know
,
that
carried
some
of
Johnson
's
hasty
talk
to
Wolf
Larsen
.
Johnson
,
it
seems
,
bought
a
suit
of
oilskins
from
the
slop-chest
and
found
them
to
be
of
greatly
inferior
quality
.
Nor
was
he
slow
in
advertising
the
fact
.
The
slop-chest
is
a
sort
of
miniature
dry-goods
store
which
is
carried
by
all
sealing
schooners
and
which
is
stocked
with
articles
peculiar
to
the
needs
of
the
sailors
.
Whatever
a
sailor
purchases
is
taken
from
his
subsequent
earnings
on
the
sealing
grounds
;
for
,
as
it
is
with
the
hunters
so
it
is
with
the
boat-pullers
and
steerers
--
in
the
place
of
wages
they
receive
a
"
lay
,
"
a
rate
of
so
much
per
skin
for
every
skin
captured
in
their
particular
boat
.
