'I THINK MY LEFT SIDE IS GOING.' Wolf Larsen wrote, the morning after his attempt to fire the ship. 'The numbness¹ is growing. I can hardly move my hand. You will have to speak louder. The last lines are going down.'

 'Are you in pain?' I asked.

 I was compelled to repeat my question loudly before he answered:

 'Not all the time.'

 The left hand stumbled slowly and painfully across the paper, and it was with extreme difficulty that we deciphered the scrawl². It was like a 'spirit message,' such as are delivered at seances of spiritualists for a dollar admission.

 'But I am still here, all here,' hand scrawled⁴, more slowly and painfully than ever.

 The pencil dropped, and we had to replace it in the hand.

 'When there is no pain I have perfect peace and quiet. I have never thought so clearly. I can ponder life and death like a Hindu sage³.'

 'And immortality⁵?' Maud queried⁶ loudly in the ear.

 Three times the hand essayed to write, but fumbled⁷ hopelessly. The pencil fell. In vain we tried to replace it. The fingers could not close on it. Then Maud pressed and held the fingers, about the pencil with her own hand, and the hand wrote, in large letters, and so slowly that the minutes ticked off to each letter:

 'B-O-S-H.'

 It was Wolf Larsen's last word,- 'bosh,'- skeptical⁸ and invincible⁹ to the end. The arm and hand relaxed. The trunk of the body moved slightly. Then there was no movement. Maud released the hand. The fingers spread, falling apart of their own weight, and the pencil rolled away.

 'Do you still hear?' I shouted, holding the fingers and waiting for the single pressure which would signify 'yes.' There was no response. The hand was dead.

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