of oncoming
sound and movement. The sultry heat had become unendurable. The sweat
was standing on my forehead, and I could feel it trickling down my nose.
I felt as though I should faint, and reached out to the rail for support.

And then, just then, the faintest possible whisper of air passed by. It
was from the east, and like a whisper it came and went. The drooping
canvas was not stirred, and yet my face had felt the air and been cooled.

"Cooky," Wolf Larsen called in a low voice. Thomas Mugridge turned a
pitiable scared face. "Let go that foreboom tackle and pass it across,
and when she's willing let go the sheet and come in snug with the tackle.
And if you make a mess of it, it will be the last you ever make.
Understand?"

"Mr. Van Weyden, stand by to pass the head-sails over. Then jump for the
topsails and spread them quick as God'll let you--the quicker you do it
the easier you'll find it. As for Cooky, if he isn't lively bat him
between the eyes."

I was aware of the compliment and pleased, in that no threat had
accompanied my instructions. We were lying head to north-west, and it
was his intention to jibe over all with the first puff.

"We'll have the breeze on our quarter," he explained to me. "By the last
guns the boats were bearing away slightly to the south'ard."

He turned and walked aft to the wheel. I went forward and took my
station at the jibs. Another whisper of wind, and another, passed by.
The canvas flapped lazily.

"Thank Gawd she's not comin' all of a bunch, Mr. Van Weyden," was the
Cockney's fervent ejaculation.

And I was indeed thankful, for I had by this time learned enough to know,
with all our canvas spread, what disaster in such event awaited us. The
whispers of wind became puffs, the sails filled, the _Ghost_ moved. Wolf
Larsen put the wheel hard up, to port, and we began to pay off. The wind
was now dead astern, muttering and puffing stronger and stronger, and my
head-sails were pounding lustily. I did not see what went on elsewhere,
though I felt the sudden surge and heel of the schooner as the
wind-pressures changed to the jibing of the fore- and main-sails. My
hands were full with the flying-jib, jib, and staysail; and by the time
this part of my task was accomplished the _Ghost_ was leaping into the
south-west, the wind on her quarter and all her sheets to starboard.
Without pausing for breath, though my heart was beating like a
trip-hammer from my exertion