The Sea-Wolf

in Mill Valley, under the shadow of Mount Tamalpais, and never occupied it except when he loafed through the winter months and read Nietzsche

noon and to stop over till Monday morning, this particular January

h, as a landsman, I had little apprehension. In fact, I remember the placid exaltation with which I took up my position on the forward upper deck, directly beneath the pilot-house, and allowed the mystery of the fog to lay hold of my

w no more of the sea and navigation than I knew. On the other hand, instead of having to devote my energy to the learning of a multitude of things, I concentrated it upon a few particular things, such as, for instance, the analysis of Poe's place in American literature, an essay of mine, by the way, in the current 'Atlantic.' Coming aboard, as I passed

hought of calling 'The Necessity for Freedom: A Plea for the Artist.' The red-faced man shot a glance up at the pilot-house, gazed around at the fog, stumped across the deck and back (he eviden

turns heads gray before their time,' he

as simple as a-b-c. They know the direction by compass, the distance, and

s he stared at me. 'How about this here tide that's rushin' out through the Golden Gate?' he demanded, or bellowed, rather. 'How f

great rapidity. The bell, which had seemed straight ahead, was now sounding from the side. Our own whist

off to the right. 'And there! D'ye hear that? Blown by mouth. Some scow s

after blast, and the mouth-blown horn

other and tryin' to get clear,' the red-faced

of the horns and sirens. 'That's a steam-siren a-goin' it over there to the left. And you hear that fellow wit

heels stopped, their pulsing beat died away, and then they started again. The shrill little whistle, like the chirping of a cricket amid the cr

ckass gets aboard one and thinks he can run it, blowin' his whistle to beat the band and tellin' the rest of the world to look out for him because he's co

y shadow of infinite mystery, brooding over the whirling speck of earth; and men, mere motes of light and sparkle, cursed with an insane relish for work, riding their steeds of wood and st

h a laugh. I, too, had been groping and floundering, th

d'ye hear that? He's comin' fast. Walkin' right along.

upon us, and I could hear the whistle pl

oat?' I

keepin' up such a clip.' He gave a short c

e fog, as though by sheer force of will he could penetrate it. His face was anxious, as was the face of my companio

ouse and a white-bearded man leaning partly out of it, on his elbows. He was clad in a blue uniform, and I remember noting how trim and quiet he was. His quietness, under the circumstances, was terrible. He accepted Destiny, marched hand in hand wit

d he seemed to have caught the contagion of preternatural calm. 'And listen to the women scream,

s stored in the cabin, but was met at the door and swept backward by a wild rush of men and women. What happened in the next few minutes I do not recollect, though I have a clear remembrance of pulling down life-preservers from the overhead racks while the red-faced man fastened them about the bodies of an hysterical group of women. This memory is as distinct and sharp as that of any picture I have seen. It is a picture, and I can see it now- the jagged edges of the hole in the side of the cabin, through wh

d. The stout gentleman is stuffing the magazine into his overcoat pocket and looking on curiously. A tangled mass of women, with drawn, white faces and open mouths, is shrieking like a c

ar of death upon them and unwilling to die. And I remember that the sounds they made reminded me of the squealing of pigs under the knife of the butcher, and I was struck with horror at the vividness of t

ns of such scenes in books. The tackles jammed. Nothing worked. One boat lowered away with the plugs out, filled with women and children and then with water, and capsized. Another boat had been lowered by one end and still h

nic, and went over the side in a surge of bodies. How I went over I do not know, though I did know, and instantly, why those in the water were so desirous of getting back on the steamer. The water was cold- so cold that it was painful. The pang, as I plunged into it, was as quick and sharp

nd I heard, also, the sound of oars. Evidently the strange steamboat had lowered its boats. As the time went by I marveled that I was still alive. I had no sensation whatever in my lower limbs, while a

owd, which partakes of a sort of community of interest, is not so terrible as a panic when one is by oneself; and such a panic I now suffered. Whither was I drifting? The red-faced man had said that the tide was ebbing through the Golden Gate. Was I, then, being carried out to sea? And the life-preserver in which I floated? was it not liable to go to pieces at

iangular sails, each shrewdly lapping the other and filled with wind. Where the bow cut the water there was a great foaming and gurgling, and I seemed directly in its path. I tried to cry out, but was too exhausted. The bow plunged down, just missing me and sending a swash of water cle

be doing little else than smoke a cigar. I saw the smoke issuing from his lips as he slowly turned his head and glanced out over the water in my direction. It was a careless,

rd me. His face wore an absent expression, as of deep thought, and I became afraid that if his eyes did light upon me he would nevertheless not see me. But his eyes did light upon me, and looked squarely into mine; and he did see me, for he sprang to

blankness and darkness that was rising around me. A little later I heard the stroke of oars, growing nearer and near

and then the blankness a