“Don’t you think you’ve stretched that neck of yours just about enough? It’s unhealthy, you know. The mate’s gone, so I can’t afford to lose you too. You must be very, very careful of your health, Cooky. Understand?” His last word, in striking contrast with the smoothness of his previous utterance, snapped like the lash of a whip. The cook quailed under it. “Yes, sir,” was the meek reply, as the offending head disappeared into the galley. At this sweeping rebuke, which the cook had only pointed, the rest of the crew became uninterested and fell to work at one task or another. A number of men, however, who were lounging about a companion-way between the galley and hatch, and who did not seem to be sailors, continued talking in low tones with one another. These, I afterward learned, were the hunters, the men who shot the seals, and a very superior breed to common sailor-folk. “Johansen!” Wolf Larsen called out. A sailor stepped forward obediently. “Get your palm and needle and sew the beggar up. You’ll find some old canvas in the sail-locker. Make it do.” “What’ll I put on his feet, sir?” the man asked, after the customary “Ay, ay, sir.” “We’ll see to that,” Wolf Larsen answered, and elevated his voice in a call of “Cooky!” Thomas Mugridge popped out of his galley like a jack-in-the-box. “Go below and fill a sack with coal.” “Any of you fellows got a Bible or Prayer-book?” was the captain’s next demand, this time of the hunters lounging about the companion-way. They shook their heads, and some one made a jocular remark which I did not catch, but which raised a general laugh. Wolf Larsen made the same demand of the sailors. Bibles and Prayer-books seemed scarce articles, but one of the men volunteered to pursue the quest amongst the watch below, returning in a minute with the information that there was none. The captain shrugged his shoulders. “Then we’ll drop him over without any palavering, unless our clerical-looking castaway has the burial service at sea by heart.” By this time he had swung fully around and was facing me. “You’re a preacher, aren’t you?” he asked. The hunters,—there were six of them,—to a man, turned and regarded me. I was painfully aware of my likeness to a scarecrow. A laugh went up at my appearance,—a laugh that was not lessened or softened by the dead man stretched and grinning on the deck before us; a laugh that was as rough and harsh and frank as the sea itself; that arose out of coarse feelings and blunted sensibilities, from natures that knew neither courtesy nor gentleness.