The Kitchen Maid

peaceful in its occurrence, sacred in its ceremonial. But death in its more sordid and terrible aspects was a thing with which I had been unacquainted till now. As I say, while I appreciated the power of the terrific denunciation that swept out of Wolf Larsen's mouth, I was inexpressibly shocked. But the dead man continued to grin unconcernedly with a sardonic humor, a cynical mockery and defiance. He was master of the situation. ¡¡CHAPTER THREE. ¡¡¡¡WOLF LARSEN CEASED SWEARING as suddenly as he had begun. He relighted his cigar and glanced around. His eyes chanced upon the cook. ¡¡¡¡'Well, Cooky?' he began, with a suaveness that was cold and of the temper of steel. ¡¡¡¡'Yes, sir,' the cook eagerly interpolated, with appeasing and apologetic servility. ¡¡¡¡'Don't you think you've stretched that neck of yours just about enough? It's unhealthy, you know. The mate's gone, so I can't afford to lose you, too. You must be very, very careful of your health, Cooky. Understand?'