The eyes, only, moved.

They flashed wide open, big and black, and stared, unblinking, into our faces.

Wolf Larsen put his finger to his lips as a sign for silence, and the eyes closed again.
In the lower bunk lay Louis, grossly fat and warm and sweaty, asleep unfeignedly and sleeping laboriously.

While Wolf Larsen held his wrist he stirred uneasily, bowing his body so that for a moment it rested on shoulders and heels.

His lips moved, and he gave voice to this enigmatic utterance: "A shilling's worth a quarter; but keep your lamps out for thruppenny-bits, or the publicans 'll shove 'em on you for sixpence." Then he rolled over on his side with a heavy, sobbing sigh, saying: "A sixpence is a tanner, and a shilling a bob; but what a pony is I don't know." Satisfied with the honesty of his and the Kanaka's sleep, Wolf Larsen passed on to the next two bunks on the starboard side, occupied top and bottom, as we saw in the light of the sea-lamp, by Leach and Johnson.
As Wolf Larsen bent down to the lower bunk to take Johnson's pulse, I, standing erect and holding the lamp, saw Leach's head rise stealthily as he peered over the side of his bunk to see what was going on.