Semanticate

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 			<p>“Strain!” he snorted. “Simple as A, B, C! Mathematical certainty!”</p>
 			<p>He seemed to brace himself up and lean backward against the air as he stared at me. “How about this here tide that’s rushin’ out through the Golden Gate?” he demanded, or bellowed, rather. “How fast is she ebbin’? What’s the drift, eh? Listen to that, will you? A bell buoy, and we’re atop of it! See ’em alterin’ the course!”</p>
 			<p>From out of the fog came the mournful tolling of a bell, and I could see the pilot turning the wheel with great rapidity. The bell, which had seemed straight ahead, was now sounding from the side. Our own whistle was blowing hoarsely, and from time to time the sound of other whistles came to us from out of the fog.</p>
-			<p>“That’s a ferryboat of some sort,” the newcomer said, indicating a whistle off to the right. “And there! D’ye hear that? Blown by mouth. Some scow schooner, most likely. Better watch out, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Schooner-man. Ah, I thought so. Now hell’s a poppin’ for somebody!”</p>
+			<p>“That’s a ferryboat of some sort,” the newcomer said, indicating a whistle off to the right. “And there! D’ye hear that? Blown by mouth. Some scow schooner, most likely. Better watch out, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Schooner-man. Ah, I thought so. Now hell’s a poppin’ for somebody!”</p>
 			<p>The unseen ferryboat was blowing blast after blast, and the mouth-blown horn was tooting in terror-stricken fashion.</p>
 			<p>“And now they’re payin’ their respects to each other and tryin’ to get clear,” the red-faced man went on, as the hurried whistling ceased.</p>
 			<p>His face was shining, his eyes flashing with excitement as he translated into articulate language the speech of the horns and sirens. “That’s a steam siren a-goin’ it over there to the left. And you hear that fellow with a frog in his throat⁠—a steam schooner as near as I can judge, crawlin’ in from the Heads against the tide.”</p>

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 			<h2 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">X</h2>
 			<p>My intimacy with Wolf Larsen increases⁠—if by intimacy may be denoted those relations which exist between master and man, or, better yet, between king and jester. I am to him no more than a toy, and he values me no more than a child values a toy. My function is to amuse, and so long as I amuse all goes well; but let him become bored, or let him have one of his black moods come upon him, and at once I am relegated from cabin table to galley, while, at the same time, I am fortunate to escape with my life and a whole body.</p>
 			<p>The loneliness of the man is slowly being borne in upon me. There is not a man aboard but hates or fears him, nor is there a man whom he does not despise. He seems consuming with the tremendous power that is in him and that seems never to have found adequate expression in works. He is as Lucifer would be, were that proud spirit banished to a society of soulless, Tomlinsonian ghosts.</p>
-			<p>This loneliness is bad enough in itself, but, to make it worse, he is oppressed by the primal melancholy of the race. Knowing him, I review the old Scandinavian myths with clearer understanding. The white-skinned, fair-haired savages who created that terrible pantheon were of the same fibre as he. The frivolity of the laughter-loving Latins is no part of him. When he laughs it is from a humour that is nothing else than ferocious. But he laughs rarely; he is too often sad. And it is a sadness as deep-reaching as the roots of the race. It is the race heritage, the sadness which has made the race sober-minded, clean-lived and fanatically moral, and which, in this latter connection, has culminated among the English in the Reformed Church and <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Grundy.</p>
+			<p>This loneliness is bad enough in itself, but, to make it worse, he is oppressed by the primal melancholy of the race. Knowing him, I review the old Scandinavian myths with clearer understanding. The white-skinned, fair-haired savages who created that terrible pantheon were of the same fibre as he. The frivolity of the laughter-loving Latins is no part of him. When he laughs it is from a humour that is nothing else than ferocious. But he laughs rarely; he is too often sad. And it is a sadness as deep-reaching as the roots of the race. It is the race heritage, the sadness which has made the race sober-minded, clean-lived and fanatically moral, and which, in this latter connection, has culminated among the English in the Reformed Church and <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Grundy.</p>
 			<p>In point of fact, the chief vent to this primal melancholy has been religion in its more agonizing forms. But the compensations of such religion are denied Wolf Larsen. His brutal materialism will not permit it. So, when his blue moods come on, nothing remains for him, but to be devilish. Were he not so terrible a man, I could sometimes feel sorry for him, as instance three mornings ago, when I went into his stateroom to fill his water bottle and came unexpectedly upon him. He did not see me. His head was buried in his hands, and his shoulders were heaving convulsively as with sobs. He seemed torn by some mighty grief. As I softly withdrew I could hear him groaning, “God! God! God!” Not that he was calling upon God; it was a mere expletive, but it came from his soul.</p>
 			<p>At dinner he asked the hunters for a remedy for headache, and by evening, strong man that he was, he was half-blind and reeling about the cabin.</p>
 			<p>“I’ve never been sick in my life, Hump,” he said, as I guided him to his room. “Nor did I ever have a headache except the time my head was healing after having been laid open for six inches by a capstan bar.”</p>

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 			<p>“Stability, equilibrium,” he said, relaxing on the instant and sinking his body back into repose. “Feet with which to clutch the ground, legs to stand on and to help withstand, while with arms and hands, teeth and nails, I struggle to kill and to be not killed. Purpose? Utility is the better word.”</p>
 			<p>I did not argue. I had seen the mechanism of the primitive fighting beast, and I was as strongly impressed as if I had seen the engines of a great battleship or Atlantic liner.</p>
 			<p>I was surprised, considering the fierce struggle in the forecastle, at the superficiality of his hurts, and I pride myself that I dressed them dexterously. With the exception of several bad wounds, the rest were merely severe bruises and lacerations. The blow which he had received before going overboard had laid his scalp open several inches. This, under his direction, I cleansed and sewed together, having first shaved the edges of the wound. Then the calf of his leg was badly lacerated and looked as though it had been mangled by a bulldog. Some sailor, he told me, had laid hold of it by his teeth, at the beginning of the fight, and hung on and been dragged to the top of the forecastle ladder, when he was kicked loose.</p>
-			<p>“By the way, Hump, as I have remarked, you are a handy man,” Wolf Larsen began, when my work was done. “As you know, we’re short a mate. Hereafter you shall stand watches, receive seventy-five dollars per month, and be addressed fore and aft as <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Van Weyden.”</p>
+			<p>“By the way, Hump, as I have remarked, you are a handy man,” Wolf Larsen began, when my work was done. “As you know, we’re short a mate. Hereafter you shall stand watches, receive seventy-five dollars per month, and be addressed fore and aft as <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Van Weyden.”</p>
 			<p>“I⁠—I don’t understand navigation, you know,” I gasped.</p>
 			<p>“Not necessary at all.”</p>
 			<p>“I really do not care to sit in the high places,” I objected. “I find life precarious enough in my present humble situation. I have no experience. Mediocrity, you see, has its compensations.”</p>
 			<p>He smiled as though it were all settled.</p>
 			<p>“I won’t be mate on this hell ship!” I cried defiantly.</p>
 			<p>I saw his face grow hard and the merciless glitter come into his eyes. He walked to the door of his room, saying:</p>
-			<p>“And now, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Van Weyden, good night.”</p>
-			<p>“Good night, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Larsen,” I answered weakly.</p>
+			<p>“And now, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Van Weyden, good night.”</p>
+			<p>“Good night, <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> Larsen,” I answered weakly.</p>
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