He wrenched and writhed about convulsively.

The chin, with the damp black beard, pointed higher in the air as the back muscles stiffened and the chest swelled in an unconscious and instinctive effort to get more air.

Under the whiskers, and all unseen, I knew that the skin was taking on a purplish hue.
The captain, or Wolf Larsen, as men called him, ceased pacing and gazed down at the dying man.

So fierce had this final struggle become that the sailor paused in the act of flinging more water over him and stared curiously, the canvas bucket partly tilted and dripping its contents to the deck.

The dying man beat a tattoo on the hatch with his heels, straightened out his legs, and stiffened in one great tense effort, and rolled his head from side to side.