Created He Them Page #2

"Created He Them" is a novella by Jack London that explores themes of humanity, freedom, and the primal instincts of man and beast. Set against the backdrop of the wilderness, the story follows a group of characters who grapple with their innate instincts and societal expectations. Through vivid imagery and compelling character development, London examines the tension between civilization and nature, ultimately questioning what it means to be truly free. The novella is a thought-provoking reflection on the struggle for identity and the impact of both environment and evolution on human behavior.

• Novel

								


He emphasized each point with an unconscious tightening of his grip
on the shoulder. Al was squirming with the pain of it. The sweat was
starting out on his forehead.

"Now listen well to me," his brother went on. "In three minutes you will
tell me that you are going with me. If you don't, Mary and the children
will be taken away from you--to-day. You needn't ever come to the
office. This house will be closed to you. And in six months I shall
have the pleasure of burying you. You have three minutes to make up your
mind."

Al made a strangling movement, and reached up with weak fingers to the
clutching hand.

"My heart... let me go... you'll be the death of me," he gasped.

The hand thrust him down forcibly into the Morris chair and released
him.

The clock on the mantle ticked loudly. George glanced at it, and
at Mary. She was leaning against the table, unable to conceal her
trembling. He became unpleasantly aware of the feeling of his brother's
fingers on his hand. Quite unconsciously he wiped the back of the hand
upon his coat. The clock ticked on in the silence. It seemed to George
that the room reverberated with his voice. He could hear himself still
speaking.

"I'll go," came from the Morris chair.

It was a weak and shaken voice, and it was a weak and shaken man that
pulled himself out of the Morris chair. He started toward the door.

"Where are you going?" George demanded.

"Suit case," came the response. "Mary'll send the trunk later. I'll be
back in a minute."

The door closed after him. A moment later, struck with sudden suspicion,
George was opening the door. He glanced in. His brother stood at a
sideboard, in one hand a decanter, in the other hand, bottom up and to
his lips, a whisky glass.

Across the glass Al saw that he was observed. It threw him into a panic.
Hastily he tried to refill the glass and get it to his lips; but glass
and decanter were sent smashing to the floor. He snarled. It was like
the sound of a wild beast. But the grip on his shoulder subdued and
frightened him. He was being propelled toward the door.

"The suit case," he gasped. "It's there in that room. Let me get it."

"Where's the key?" his brother asked, when he had brought it.

"It isn't locked."

The next moment the suit case was spread open, and George's hand was
searching the contents. From one side it brought out a bottle of whisky,
from the other side a flask. He snapped the case to.

"Come on," he said. "If we miss one car, we miss that train."

He went out into the hallway, leaving Al with his wife. It was like a
funeral, George thought, as he waited.

His brother's overcoat caught on the knob of the front door and delayed
its closing long enough for Mary's first sob to come to their ears.
George's lips were very thin and compressed as he went down the steps.
In one hand he carried the suit case. With the other hand he held his
brother's arm.

As they neared the corner, he heard the electric car a block away,
and urged his brother on. Al was breathing hard. His feet dragged and
shuffled, and he held back.

"A hell of a brother YOU are," he panted.

For reply, he received a vicious jerk on his arm. It reminded him of his
childhood when he was hurried along by some angry grown-up. And like a
child, he had to be helped up the car step. He sank down on an outside
seat, panting, sweating, overcome by the exertion. He followed George's
eyes as the latter looked him up and down.

"A hell of a brother YOU are," was George's comment when he had finished
the inspection.

Moisture welled into Al's eyes.

"It's my stomach," he said with self-pity.

"I don't wonder," was the retort. "Burnt out like the crater of a
volcano. Fervent heat isn't a circumstance."

Thereafter they did not speak. When they arrived at the transfer point,
George came to himself with a start. He smiled. With fixed gaze that
did not see the houses that streamed across his field of vision, he had
himself been sunk deep in self-pity. He helped his brother from the car,
and looked up the intersecting street. The car they were to take was not
in sight.

Al's eyes chanced upon the corner grocery and saloon across the way.
At once he became restless. His hands passed beyond his control, and he
yearned hungrily across the street to the door that swung open even as
he looked and let in a happy pilgrim. And in that instant he saw the
white-jacketed bartender against an array of glittering glass. Quite
unconsciously he started to cross the street.

"Hold on." George's hand was on his arm.

"I want some whisky," he answered.

"You've already had some."

"That was hours ago. Go on, George, let me have some. It's the last
day. Don't shut off on me until we get there--God knows it will be soon
enough."

George glanced desperately up the street. The car was in sight.

"There isn't time for a drink," he said.

"I don't want a drink. I want a bottle." Al's voice became wheedling.
"Go on, George. It's the last, the very last."

"No." The denial was as final as George's thin lips could make it.

Al glanced at the approaching car. He sat down suddenly on the
curbstone.

"What's the matter?" his brother asked, with momentary alarm.

"Nothing. I want some whisky. It's my stomach."

"Come on now, get up."

George reached for him, but was anticipated, for his brother sprawled
flat on the pavement, oblivious to the dirt and to the curious glances
of the passers-by. The car was clanging its gong at the crossing, a
block away.

"You'll miss it," Al grinned from the pavement. "And it will be your
fault."

George's fists clenched tightly.

"For two cents I'd give you a thrashing."

"And miss the car," was the triumphant comment from the pavement.

George looked at the car. It was halfway down the block. He looked at
his watch. He debated a second longer.

"All right," he said. "I'll get it. But you get on that car. If you miss
it, I'll break the bottle over your head."

He dashed across the street and into the saloon. The car came in and
stopped. There were no passengers to get off. Al dragged himself up the
steps and sat down. He smiled as the conductor rang the bell and the car
started. The swinging door of the saloon burst open. Clutching in
his hand the suit case and a pint bottle of whisky, George started in
pursuit. The conductor, his hand on the bell cord, waited to see if it
would be necessary to stop. It was not. George swung lightly aboard, sat
down beside his brother, and passed him the bottle.

"You might have got a quart," Al said reproachfully.

He extracted the cork with a pocket corkscrew, and elevated the bottle.

"I'm sick... my stomach," he explained in apologetic tones to the
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