he was no match for Wolf
Larsen, much less for Wolf Larsen and the mate. It was frightful. I had
not imagined a human being could endure so much and still live and
struggle on. And struggle on Johnson did. Of course there was no hope
for him, not the slightest, and he knew it as well as I, but by the
manhood that was in him he could not cease from fighting for that
manhood.

It was too much for me to witness. I felt that I should lose my mind,
and I ran up the companion stairs to open the doors and escape on deck.
But Wolf Larsen, leaving his victim for the moment, and with one of his
tremendous springs, gained my side and flung me into the far corner of
the cabin.

"The phenomena of life, Hump," he girded at me. "Stay and watch it. You
may gather data on the immortality of the soul. Besides, you know, we
can't hurt Johnson's soul. It's only the fleeting form we may demolish."

It seemed centuries--possibly it was no more than ten minutes that the
beating continued. Wolf Larsen and Johansen were all about the poor
fellow. They struck him with their fists, kicked him with their heavy
shoes, knocked him down, and dragged him to his feet to knock him down
again. His eyes were blinded so that he could not set, and the blood
running from ears and nose and mouth turned the cabin into a shambles.
And when he could no longer rise they still continued to beat and kick
him where he lay.

"Easy, Johansen; easy as she goes," Wolf Larsen finally said.

But the beast in the mate was up and rampant, and Wolf Larsen was
compelled to brush him away with a back-handed sweep of the arm, gentle
enough, apparently, but which hurled Johansen back like a cork, driving
his head against the wall with a crash. He fell to the floor, half
stunned for the moment, breathing heavily and blinking his eyes in a
stupid sort of way.

"Jerk open the doors,--Hump," I was commanded.

I obeyed, and the two brutes picked up the senseless man like a sack of
rubbish and hove him clear up the companion stairs, through the narrow
doorway, and out on deck. The blood from his nose gushed in a scarlet
stream over the feet of the helmsman, who was none other than Louis, his
boat-mate. But Louis took and gave a spoke and gazed imperturbably into
the binnacle.

Not so was the conduct of George Leach, the erstwhile cabin-boy. Fore
and aft there was nothing that could have surprised us more than his
consequent behaviour. He it was that came up