He ran the gamut of
denunciation, rising to heights of wrath that were sublime and almost
Godlike, and from sheer exhaustion sinking to the vilest and most
indecent abuse.

His rage was a madness. His lips were flecked with a soapy froth, and
sometimes he choked and gurgled and became inarticulate. And through it
all, calm and impassive, leaning on his elbow and gazing down, Wolf
Larsen seemed lost in a great curiosity. This wild stirring of yeasty
life, this terrific revolt and defiance of matter that moved, perplexed
and interested him.

Each moment I looked, and everybody looked, for him to leap upon the boy
and destroy him. But it was not his whim. His cigar went out, and he
continued to gaze silently and curiously.

Leach had worked himself into an ecstasy of impotent rage.

"Pig! Pig! Pig!" he was reiterating at the top of his lungs. "Why
don't you come down and kill me, you murderer? You can do it! I ain't
afraid! There's no one to stop you! Damn sight better dead and outa
your reach than alive and in your clutches! Come on, you coward! Kill
me! Kill me! Kill me!"

It was at this stage that Thomas Mugridge's erratic soul brought him into
the scene. He had been listening at the galley door, but he now came
out, ostensibly to fling some scraps over the side, but obviously to see
the killing he was certain would take place. He smirked greasily up into
the face of Wolf Larsen, who seemed not to see him. But the Cockney was
unabashed, though mad, stark mad. He turned to Leach, saying:

"Such langwidge! Shockin'!"

Leach's rage was no longer impotent. Here at last was something ready to
hand. And for the first time since the stabbing the Cockney had appeared
outside the galley without his knife. The words had barely left his
mouth when he was knocked down by Leach. Three times he struggled to his
feet, striving to gain the galley, and each time was knocked down.

"Oh, Lord!" he cried. "'Elp! 'Elp! Tyke 'im aw'y, carn't yer? Tyke
'im aw'y!"

The hunters laughed from sheer relief. Tragedy had dwindled, the farce
had begun. The sailors now crowded boldly aft, grinning and shuffling,
to watch the pummelling of the hated Cockney. And even I felt a great
joy surge up within me. I confess that I delighted in this beating Leach
was giving to Thomas Mugridge, though it was as terrible, almost, as the
one Mugridge had caused to be given to Johnson. But the expression of
Wolf Larsen's