ove and carried the ashes up on
deck to empty them. Wolf Larsen and Henderson were standing near the
wheel, deep in conversation. The sailor, Johnson, was steering. As I
started toward the weather side I saw him make a sudden motion with his
head, which I mistook for a token of recognition and good-morning. In
reality, he was attempting to warn me to throw my ashes over the lee
side. Unconscious of my blunder, I passed by Wolf Larsen and the hunter
and flung the ashes over the side to windward. The wind drove them back,
and not only over me, but over Henderson and Wolf Larsen. The next
instant the latter kicked me, violently, as a cur is kicked. I had not
realized there could be so much pain in a kick. I reeled away from him
and leaned against the cabin in a half-fainting condition. Everything
was swimming before my eyes, and I turned sick. The nausea overpowered
me, and I managed to crawl to the side of the vessel. But Wolf Larsen
did not follow me up. Brushing the ashes from his clothes, he had
resumed his conversation with Henderson. Johansen, who had seen the
affair from the break of the poop, sent a couple of sailors aft to clean
up the mess.

Later in the morning I received a surprise of a totally different sort.
Following the cook's instructions, I had gone into Wolf Larsen's
state-room to put it to rights and make the bed. Against the wall, near
the head of the bunk, was a rack filled with books. I glanced over them,
noting with astonishment such names as Shakespeare, Tennyson, Poe, and De
Quincey. There were scientific works, too, among which were represented
men such as Tyndall, Proctor, and Darwin. Astronomy and physics were
represented, and I remarked Bulfinch's _Age of Fable_, Shaw's _History of
English and American Literature_, and Johnson's _Natural History_ in two
large volumes. Then there were a number of grammars, such as Metcalf's,
and Reed and Kellogg's; and I smiled as I saw a copy of _The Dean's
English_.

I could not reconcile these books with the man from what I had seen of
him, and I wondered if he could possibly read them. But when I came to
make the bed I found, between the blankets, dropped apparently as he had
sunk off to sleep, a complete Browning, the Cambridge Edition. It was
open at "In a Balcony," and I noticed, here and there, passages
underlined in pencil. Further, letting drop the volume during a lurch of
the ship, a sheet of paper fell out. It was scrawled ov