They had but to appear on deck at the same time, when they would be at it, cursing, snarling, striking; and I have seen Leach fling himself upon Wolf Larsen without warning or provocation.
Once he threw his heavy sheath-knife, missing Wolf Larsen's throat by an inch.

Another time he dropped a steel marlinspike from the mizzen crosstree.

It was a difficult cast to make on a rolling ship, but the sharp point of the spike, whistling seventy-five feet through the air, barely missed Wolf Larsen's head as he emerged from the cabin companion-way and drove its length two inches and over into the solid deck-planking.

Still another time, he stole into the steerage, possessed himself of a loaded shot-gun, and was making a rush for the deck with it when caught by Kerfoot and disarmed.
I often wondered why Wolf Larsen did not kill him and make an end of it.
But he only laughed and seemed to enjoy it.

There seemed a certain spice about it, such as men must feel who take delight in making pets of ferocious animals.
"It gives a thrill to life," he explained to me, "when life is carried in one's hand.