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:

"B-O-S-H."

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.

I repeated the question. The lips moved. She placed the tips of her
fingers on them. Again I repeated the question. "Yes," Maud announced.
We looked at each other expectantly.

"What good is it?" I asked. "What can we say now?"

"Oh, ask him--"

She hesitated.

"Ask him something that requires no for an answer," I suggested. "Then
we will know for certainty."

"Are you hungry?" she cried.

The lips moved under her fingers, and she answered, "Yes."

"Will you have some beef?" was her next query.

"No," she announced.

"Beef-tea?"

"Yes, he will have some beef-tea," she said, quietly, looking up at me.
"Until his hearing goes we shall be able to communicate with him. And
after that--"

She looked at me queerly. I saw her lips trembling and the tears
swimming up in her eyes. She swayed toward me and I caught her in my
arms.

"Oh, Humphrey," she sobbed, "when will it all end? I am so tired, so
tired."

She buried her head on my shoulder, her frail form shaken with a storm of
weeping. She was like a feather in my arms, so slender, so ethereal.
"She has broken down at last," I thought. "What can I do without her
help?"

But I soothed and comforted her, till she pu