noon
The _ Ghost _ ploughed on her way . I noted the gurgling forefoot was very like a snore , and as I listened to it the effect of Wolf Larsen 's swift rush from sublime exultation to despair slowly left me . Then some deep-water sailor , from the waist of the ship , lifted a rich tenor voice in the `` Song of the Trade Wind '' : `` Oh , I am the wind the seamen love -- I am steady , and strong , and true ; They follow my track by the clouds above , O'er the fathomless tropic blue . * * * * * Through daylight and dark I follow the bark I keep like a hound on her trail ; I 'm strongest at noon , yet under the moon , I stiffen the bunt of her sail . '' Sometimes I think Wolf Larsen mad , or half-mad at least , what of his strange moods and vagaries . At other times I take him for a great man , a genius who has never arrived . And , finally , I am convinced that he is the perfect type of the primitive man , born a thousand years or generations too late and an anachronism in this culminating century of civilization .