What visitant from the gloom of the deep was I to behold?
Whatever it was, I knew that it was climbing aboard by the log-line.

I saw a head, the hair wet and straight, shape itself, and then the unmistakable eyes and face of Wolf Larsen.

His right cheek was red with blood, which flowed from some wound in the head.
He drew himself inboard with a quick effort, and arose to his feet, glancing swiftly, as he did so, at the man at the wheel, as though to assure himself of his identity and that there was nothing to fear from him.

The sea-water was streaming from him.

It made little audible gurgles which distracted me.