There was no greeting.
They were as dead men in their comrades' eyes, and between them was the gulf that parts the living and the dead.
The next instant they were opposite the poop, where stood Wolf Larsen and I.

We were falling in the trough, they were rising on the surge.
Johnson looked at me, and I could see that his face was worn and haggard.
I waved my hand to him, and he answered the greeting, but with a wave that was hopeless and despairing.

It was as if he were saying farewell.
I did not see into the eyes of Leach, for he was looking at Wolf Larsen, the old and implacable snarl of hatred strong as ever on his face.
Then they were gone astern.

The spritsail filled with the wind, suddenly, careening the frail open craft till it seemed it would surely capsize.

A whitecap foamed above it and broke across in a snow-white smother.