the beggar up. You'll find some old canvas in the sail-locker. Make it do."
"What'll I put on his feet, sir?" the man asked, after the customary "Ay, ay, sir."
"We'll see to that," Wolf Larsen answered, and elevated his voice in a call of "Cooky!"
Thomas Mugridge popped out of his galley like a jack-in-the- box.
"Go below and fill a sack with coal."
"Any of you fellows got a Bible or prayer-book?" was the captain's next demand, this time of the hunters lounging about the companionway.
They shook their heads, and some one made a jocular remark which I did not catch, but which raised a general laugh.
Wolf Larsen made the same demand of the sailors. Bibles and prayer-books seemed scarce articles, but one of the men volunteered to pursue the quest amongst the watch below, returning in a minute with the information that there was none.
The captain shrugged his shoulders. "Then we'll drop him over without any palavering, unless our clerical-looking cast-away has the burial service at sea by heart."
By this time he had swung fully around and was facing me.
"You're a preacher, aren't you?" he asked.
The hunters,—there were six of them,—to a man, turned and regarded me. I was painfully aware of my likeness to a scarecrow. A laugh went up at my appearance,—a laugh that was not lessened or softened by the dead man stretched and grinning on the deck before us; a laugh that was as rough and harsh and frank as the sea itself; that arose out of coarse feelings and blunted
