The Unexpected Page #2

"The Unexpected" is a short story by Jack London that explores themes of survival, human resilience, and the unpredictability of nature. Set against the backdrop of the wilderness, the narrative follows a group of men facing unforeseen challenges that test their limits and camaraderie. Through vivid descriptions and intense situations, London delves into the complexities of human instinct and the unexpected twists of fate that can change lives in an instant. The story reflects London's characteristic rugged individualism and profound understanding of the human spirit in the face of adversity.

								


The Indian summer had dreamed on and on, and then, suddenly, with the
sharpness of bugles, winter came. It came in a single night, and the
miners awoke to howling wind, driving snow, and freezing water. Storm
followed storm, and between the storms there was the silence, broken
only by the boom of the surf on the desolate shore, where the salt
spray rimmed the beach with frozen white.

All went well in the cabin. Their gold-dust had weighed up something
like eight thousand dollars, and they could not but be contented.
The men made snowshoes, hunted fresh meat for the larder, and in the
long evenings played endless games of whist and pedro. Now that the
mining had ceased, Edith Nelson turned over the fire-building and the
dish-washing to the men, while she darned their socks and mended their
clothes.

There was no grumbling, no bickering, nor petty quarrelling in the
little cabin, and they often congratulated one another on the general
happiness of the party. Hans Nelson was stolid and easy-going, while
Edith had long before won his unbounded admiration by her capacity
for getting on with people. Harkey, a long, lank Texan, was unusually
friendly for one with a saturnine disposition, and, as long as his
theory that gold grew was not challenged, was quite companionable. The
fourth member of the party, Michael Dennin, contributed his Irish wit
to the gayety of the cabin. He was a large, powerful man, prone to
sudden rushes of anger over little things, and of unfailing good-humor
under the stress and strain of big things. The fifth and last member,
Dutchy, was the willing butt of the party. He even went out of his way
to raise a laugh at his own expense in order to keep things cheerful.
His deliberate aim in life seemed to be that of a maker of laughter. No
serious quarrel had ever vexed the serenity of the party; and, now that
each had sixteen hundred dollars to show for a short summer's work,
there reigned the well-fed, contented spirit of prosperity.

And then the unexpected happened. They had just sat down to the
breakfast table. Though it was already eight o'clock (late breakfasts
had followed naturally upon cessation of the steady work at mining) a
candle in the neck of a bottle lighted the meal. Edith and Hans sat at
each end of the table. On one side, with their backs to the door, sat
Harkey and Dutchy. The place on the other side was vacant. Dennin had
not yet come in.

Hans Nelson looked at the empty chair, shook his head slowly, and, with
a ponderous attempt at humor, said: "Always is he first at the grub. It
is very strange. Maybe he is sick."

"Where is Michael?" Edith asked.

"Got up a little ahead of us and went outside," Harkey answered.

Dutchy's face beamed mischievously. He pretended knowledge of Dennin's
absence, and affected a mysterious air, while they clamored for
information. Edith, after a peep into the men's bunk-room, returned to
the table. Hans looked at her, and she shook her head.

"He was never late at meal-time before," she remarked.

"I cannot understand," said Hans. "Always has he the great appetite like
the horse."

"It is too bad," Dutchy said, with a sad shake of his head.

They were beginning to make merry over their comrade's absence.

"It is a great pity!" Dutchy volunteered.

"What?" they demanded in chorus.

"Poor Michael," was the mournful reply.

"Well, what's wrong with Michael?" Harkey asked.

"He is not hungry no more," wailed Dutchy. "He has lost der appetite. He
do not like der grub."

"Not from the way he pitches into it up to his ears," remarked Harkey.

"He does dot shust to be politeful to Mrs. Nelson," was Dutchy's
quick retort. "I know, I know, and it is too pad. Why is he not here?
Pecause he haf gone out. Why haf he gone out? For der defelopment of
der appetite. How does he defelop der appetite? He walks barefoots in
der snow. Ach! don't I know? It is der way der rich peoples chases
after der appetite when it is no more and is running away. Michael
haf sixteen hundred dollars. He is rich peoples. He haf no appetite.
Derefore, pecause, he is chasing der appetite. Shust you open der door
und you will see his barefoots in der snow. No, you will not see der
appetite. Dot is shust his trouble. When he sees der appetite he will
catch it und come to preak-fast."

They burst into loud laughter at Dutchy's nonsense. The sound had
scarcely died away when the door opened and Dennin came in. All turned
to look at him. He was carrying a shot-gun. Even as they looked, he
lifted it to his shoulder and fired twice. At the first shot Dutchy
sank upon the table, overturning his mug of coffee, his yellow mop of
hair dabbling in his plate of mush. His forehead, which pressed upon
the near edge of the plate, tilted the plate up against his hair at an
angle of forty-five degrees. Harkey was in the air, in his spring to
his feet, at the second shot, and he pitched face down upon the floor,
his "My God!" gurgling and dying in his throat.

It was the unexpected. Hans and Edith were stunned. They sat at the
table with bodies tense, their eyes fixed in a fascinated gaze upon
the murderer. Dimly they saw him through the smoke of the powder, and
in the silence nothing was to be heard save the drip-drip of Dutchy's
spilled coffee on the floor. Dennin threw open the breech of the
shot-gun, ejecting the empty shells. Holding the gun with one hand, he
reached with the other into his pocket for fresh shells.

He was thrusting the shells into the gun when Edith Nelson was
aroused to action. It was patent that he intended to kill Hans and
her. For a space of possibly three seconds of time she had been dazed
and paralysed by the horrible and inconceivable form in which the
unexpected had made its appearance. Then she rose to it and grappled
with it. She grappled with it concretely, making a cat-like leap for
the murderer and gripping his neck-cloth with both her hands. The
impact of her body sent him stumbling backward several steps. He
tried to shake her loose and still retain his hold on the gun. This
was awkward, for her firm-fleshed body had become a cat's. She threw
herself to one side, and with her grip at his throat nearly jerked
him to the floor. He straightened himself and whirled swiftly. Still
faithful to her hold, her body followed the circle of his whirl so that
her feet left the floor, and she swung through the air fastened to his
throat by her hands. The whirl culminated in a collision with a chair,
and the man and woman crashed to the floor in a wild struggling fall
that extended itself across half the length of the room.

Hans Nelson was half a second behind his wife in rising to the
unexpected. His nerve processes and mental processes were slower than
hers. His was the grosser organism, and it had taken him half a second
longer to perceive, and determine, and proceed to do. She had already
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