here we filled our water-casks.

But my happiness was not unalloyed. It was comparative, a period of less
misery slipped in between a past of great miseries and a future of great
miseries. For the _Ghost_, so far as the seamen were concerned, was a
hell-ship of the worst description. They never had a moment's rest or
peace. Wolf Larsen treasured against them the attempt on his life and
the drubbing he had received in the forecastle; and morning, noon, and
night, and all night as well, he devoted himself to making life unlivable
for them.

He knew well the psychology of the little thing, and it was the little
things by which he kept the crew worked up to the verge of madness. I
have seen Harrison called from his bunk to put properly away a misplaced
paintbrush, and the two watches below haled from their tired sleep to
accompany him and see him do it. A little thing, truly, but when
multiplied by the thousand ingenious devices of such a mind, the mental
state of the men in the forecastle may be slightly comprehended.

Of course much grumbling went on, and little outbursts were continually
occurring. Blows were struck, and there were always two or three men
nursing injuries at the hands of the human beast who was their master.
Concerted action was impossible in face of the heavy arsenal of weapons
carried in the steerage and cabin. Leach and Johnson were the two
particular victims of Wolf Larsen's diabolic temper, and the look of
profound melancholy which had settled on Johnson's face and in his eyes
made my heart bleed.

With Leach it was different. There was too much of the fighting beast in
him. He seemed possessed by an insatiable fury which gave no time for
grief. His lips had become distorted into a permanent snarl, which at
mere sight of Wolf Larsen broke out in sound, horrible and menacing and,
I do believe, unconsciously. I have seen him follow Wolf Larsen about
with his eyes, like an animal its keeper, the while the animal-like snarl
sounded deep in his throat and vibrated forth between his teeth.

I remember once, on deck, in bright day, touching him on the shoulder as
preliminary to giving an order. His back was toward me, and at the first
feel of my hand he leaped upright in the air and away from me, snarling
and turning his head as he leaped. He had for the moment mistaken me for
the man he hated.

Both he and Johnson would have killed Wolf Larsen at the slightest
opportunity, but the oppo