side. The boat was close at hand
now, and in desperate plight. Johnson was steering, Leach bailing. We
overhauled them about two feet to their one. Wolf Larsen motioned Louis
to keep off slightly, and we dashed abreast of the boat, not a score of
feet to windward. The _Ghost_ blanketed it. The spritsail flapped
emptily and the boat righted to an even keel, causing the two men swiftly
to change position. The boat lost headway, and, as we lifted on a huge
surge, toppled and fell into the trough.

It was at this moment that Leach and Johnson looked up into the faces of
their shipmates, who lined the rail amidships. There was no greeting.
They were as dead men in their comrades' eyes, and between them was the
gulf that parts the living and the dead.

The next instant they were opposite the poop, where stood Wolf Larsen and
I. We were falling in the trough, they were rising on the surge.
Johnson looked at me, and I could see that his face was worn and haggard.
I waved my hand to him, and he answered the greeting, but with a wave
that was hopeless and despairing. It was as if he were saying farewell.
I did not see into the eyes of Leach, for he was looking at Wolf Larsen,
the old and implacable snarl of hatred strong as ever on his face.

Then they were gone astern. The spritsail filled with the wind,
suddenly, careening the frail open craft till it seemed it would surely
capsize. A whitecap foamed above it and broke across in a snow-white
smother. Then the boat emerged, half swamped, Leach flinging the water
out and Johnson clinging to the steering-oar, his face white and anxious.

Wolf Larsen barked a short laugh in my ear and strode away to the weather
side of the poop. I expected him to give orders for the _Ghost_ to heave
to, but she kept on her course and he made no sign. Louis stood
imperturbably at the wheel, but I noticed the grouped sailors forward
turning troubled faces in our direction. Still the _Ghost_ tore along,
till the boat dwindled to a speck, when Wolf Larsen's voice rang out in
command and he went about on the starboard tack.

Back we held, two miles and more to windward of the struggling
cockle-shell, when the flying jib was run down and the schooner hove to.
The sealing boats are not made for windward work. Their hope lies in
keeping a weather position so that they may run before the wind for the
schooner when it breezes up. But in all that wild waste there was no
refuge for Leach