The Sea Wolf
"I think my left side is going," Wolf Larsen wrote, the morning after his attempt to fire
the ship. "The numbness is growing. I can hardly move my hand. You will have to speak
louder. The last lines are going down."
"Are you in pain?" I asked.
I was compelled to repeat my question loudly before he answered:
"Not all the time."
The left hand stumbled slowly and painfully across the paper, and it was with extreme
difficulty that we deciphered the scrawl. It was like a "spirit message," such as are
delivered at seances of spiritualists for a dollar admission.
"But I am still here, all here," the hand scrawled more slowly and painfully than ever.
The pencil dropped, and we had to replace it in the hand.
"When there is no pain I have perfect peace and quiet. I have never thought so clearly. I
can ponder life and death like a Hindoo sage."
"And immortality?" Maud queried loudly in the ear.
Three times the hand essayed to write but fumbled hopelessly. The pencil fell. In vain we
tried to replace it. The fingers could not close on it. Then Maud pressed and held the
fingers about the pencil with her own hand and the hand wrote, in large letters, and so
slowly that the minutes ticked off to each letter:
It was Wolf Larsen's last word, "bosh," sceptical and invincible to the end. The arm and
hand relaxed. The trunk of the body moved slightly. Then there was no movement. Maud
released the hand. The fingers spread slightly, falling apart of their own weight, and the
pencil rolled away.
"Do you still hear?" I shouted, holding the fingers and waiting for the single pressure
which would signify "Yes." There was no response. The hand was dead.
"I noticed the lips slightly move," Maud said.