A strong hand gripped me, and when the _Ghost_ finally emerged, I found that I owed my life to Johnson.

I saw him looking anxiously about him, and noted that Kelly, who had come forward at the last moment, was missing.
This time, having missed the boat, and not being in the same position as in the previous instances, Wolf Larsen was compelled to resort to a different manoeuvre.

Running off before the wind with everything to starboard, he came about, and returned close-hauled on the port tack.
"Grand!" Johnson shouted in my ear, as we successfully came through the attendant deluge, and I knew he referred, not to Wolf Larsen's seamanship, but to the performance of the _Ghost_ herself.
It was now so dark that there was no sign of the boat; but Wolf Larsen held back through the frightful turmoil as if guided by unerring instinct.

This time, though we were continually half-buried, there was no trough in which to be swept, and we drifted squarely down upon the upturned boat, badly smashing it as it was heaved inboard.
Two hours of terrible work followed, in which all hands of us--two hunters, three sailors, Wolf Larsen and I--reefed, first one and then the other, the jib and mainsail.

Hove to under this short canvas, our decks were comparatively free of water, while the _Ghost_ bobbed and ducked amongst the combers like a cork.
I had burst open the ends of my fingers at the very first, and during the reefing I had worked with tears of pain running down my cheeks.