The wind had been momentarily increasing, and the sun, after a few angry gleams, had disappeared.

The sea had turned a dull leaden grey and grown rougher, and was now tossing foaming whitecaps to the sky.

We were travelling faster, and heeled farther over.

Once, in a gust, the rail dipped under the sea, and the decks on that side were for the moment awash with water that made a couple of the hunters hastily lift their feet.
"That vessel will soon be passing us," I said, after a moment's pause.
"As she is going in the opposite direction, she is very probably bound for San Francisco." "Very probably," was Wolf Larsen's answer, as he turned partly away from me and cried out, "Cooky! Oh, Cooky!" The Cockney popped out of the galley.
"Where's that boy?
Tell him I want him." "Yes, sir;" and Thomas Mugridge fled swiftly aft and disappeared down another companion-way near the wheel.

A moment later he emerged, a heavy-set young fellow of eighteen or nineteen, with a glowering, villainous countenance, trailing at his heels.
"'Ere 'e is, sir," the cook said.
But Wolf Larsen ignored that worthy, turning at once to the cabin-boy.
"What's your name, boy ?" "George Leach, sir," came the sullen answer, and the boy's bearing showed clearly that he divined the reason for which he had been summoned.
"Not an Irish name," the captain snapped sharply.