His clutch was broken.
One hand was torn loose from its hold.

The other lingered desperately for a moment, and followed.

His body pitched out and down, but in some way he managed to save himself with his legs.

He was hanging by them, head downward.

A quick effort brought his hands up to the halyards again; but he was a long time regaining his former position, where he hung, a pitiable object.
"I'll bet he has no appetite for supper," I heard Wolf Larsen's voice, which came to me from around the corner of the galley.