I could not squirm or struggle like a schoolboy.

Nor could I attack such a creature who had but to twist my arm to break it.

Nothing remained but to stand still and accept the indignity.

I had time to notice that the pockets of the dead man had been emptied on the deck, and that his body and his grin had been wrapped from view in canvas, the folds of which the sailor, Johansen, was sewing together with coarse white twine, shoving the needle through with a leather contrivance fitted on the palm of his hand.
Wolf Larsen dropped my hand with a flirt of disdain.
"Dead men's hands have kept it soft.

Good for little else than dish-washing and scullion work." "I wish to be put ashore," I said firmly, for I now had myself in control.