The cause of it all, as near as I could make out, was that the man, who was mate, had gone on a debauch before leaving San Francisco, and then had the poor taste to die at the beginning of the voyage and leave Wolf Larsen short-handed.
It should be unnecessary to state, at least to my friends, that I was shocked.

Oaths and vile language of any sort had always been repellent to me.

I felt a wilting sensation, a sinking at the heart, and, I might just as well say, a giddiness.

To me, death had always been invested with solemnity and dignity.

It had been peaceful in its occurrence, sacred in its ceremonial.