I looked. The lanyards had been almost severed, with just enough left to hold the shrouds till some severe strain should be put upon them.
“Cooky did that,” he laughed again. “I know, though I didn’t spot him at it. Kind of evened up the score a bit.”
“Good for Mugridge!” I cried.
“Yes, that’s what I thought when everything went over the side. Only I said it on the other side of my mouth.”
“But what were you doing while all this was going on?” I asked.
“My best, you may be sure, which wasn’t much under the circumstances.”
I turned to re-examine Thomas Mugridge’s work.
“I guess I’ll sit down and take the sunshine,” I heard Wolf Larsen saying.
There was a hint, just a slight hint, of physical feebleness in his voice, and it was so strange that I looked quickly at him. His hand was sweeping nervously across his face, as though he were brushing away cobwebs. I was puzzled. The whole thing was so unlike the Wolf Larsen I had known.
“How are your headaches?” I asked.