IV

Among the most vivid memories of my life are those of the events on the
_Ghost_ which occurred during the forty hours succeeding the discovery of
my love for Maud Brewster. I, who had lived my life in quiet places,
only to enter at the age of thirty-five upon a course of the most
irrational adventure I could have imagined, never had more incident and
excitement crammed into any forty hours of my experience. Nor can I
quite close my ears to a small voice of pride which tells me I did not do
so badly, all things considered.

To begin with, at the midday dinner, Wolf Larsen informed the hunters
that they were to eat thenceforth in the steerage. It was an
unprecedented thing on sealing-schooners, where it is the custom for the
hunters to rank, unofficially as officers. He gave no reason, but his
motive was obvious enough. Horner and Smoke had been displaying a
gallantry toward Maud Brewster, ludicrous in itself and inoffensive to
her, but to him evidently distasteful.

The announcement was received with black silence, though the other four
hunters glanced significantly at the two who had been the cause of their
banishment. Jock Horner, quiet as was his way, gave no sign; but the
blood surged darkly across Smoke's forehead, and he half opened his mouth
to speak. Wolf Larsen was watching him, waiting for him, the steely
glitter in his eyes; but Smoke closed his mouth again without having said
anything.

"Anything to say?" the other demanded aggressively.

It was a challenge, but Smoke refused to accept it.

"About what?" he asked, so innocently that Wolf Larsen was disconcerted,
while the others smiled.

"Oh, nothing," Wolf Larsen said lamely. "I just thought you might want
to register a kick."

"About what?" asked the imperturbable Smoke.

Smoke's mates were now smiling broadly. His captain could have killed
him, and I doubt not that blood would have flowed had not Maud Brewster
been present. For that matter, it was her presence which enabled. Smoke
to act as he did. He was too discreet and cautious a man to incur Wolf
Larsen's anger at a time when that anger could be expressed in terms
stronger than words. I was in fear that a struggle might take place, but
a cry from the helmsman made it easy for the situation to save itself.

"Smoke ho!" the cry came down the open companion-way.

"How's it bear?" Wolf Larsen called up.

"Dead astern, sir."

"Maybe it's a Russian," suggested Latimer.

H