The Haunted Ship

A weird tale of a sailor s passion and a ghost with a wooden leg

C. HEDLEY BARKER July 1 1930

The Haunted Ship

A weird tale of a sailor s passion and a ghost with a wooden leg

C. HEDLEY BARKER July 1 1930

The Haunted Ship

A weird tale of a sailor s passion and a ghost with a wooden leg


THEY were gathered—pilots all—about a round, polished table in a bar-parlor sacred to their kind Outside, a high wind blew in great claps like thunder, whipping the rain before it, slashing it savagely against the windows. It was searching out nooks and crannies, too, for in the rare intervals of silence the drip, drip of falling water could be heard tapping on the floor of the room above.

Six of them were watching the seventh with an eager intentness. He, oblivious for the moment of their presence, puffed at a corncob pipe, and stared into his glass with an almost energetic abstraction.

Fully five minutes had elapsed since he had promised them a story. They knew their man and waited patiently. And, at last, the senior pilot looked at them with the troubled expression that he always wore, knocked out his pipe, refilled it, and began.

^\FTEN, he said, you come across a line of ships laid up at the dockside, doing nothing at all; just lying there idle, at peace, dreaming of past voyages maybe, and of voyages to come. A fanciful way of looking at it, but they were always something more than just ships to me. And that’s steamships, mind. As for the old clippers—they have the very breath of life in them.

Well, picture to yourself a line of ships like that, laid up for one reason or another, fretting, crying out to be free—so it seemed, with every creak of them as they rode to the swell—with a far horizon before them and the luck of the feather. That’s how they looked, with their iron sides wasting, rusting, and their decks neglected, and their funnels cold, cold as charity. Strung out there by the Leopold dock they were. Not even a watchman visible save on the John Blount.

The John Blount, an eight thousand tonner, was different from the others. You didn’t get it, this difference, at first. A casual glance showed only the rust on her flanks, and the general greasy air of her. You got an idea that she might not smell very nice below. But a closer inspection discovered bunting. A feeble enough display, and that of bunting not too clean. However-bunting.

Having discovered the bunting, your eye travelled up the halyard from bridge to truck, and there between the masts you read the answer to your question in the wreath of blossoms that hung above the funnel. Somebody was being married, and that somebody you would have learned on enquiry was the captain.

As the watchman struck six bells a cab rolled slowly along the jetty. The handsome face of Captain Hennesey was thrust out of the window, directing the cabby to the John Blount. The cab stopped, the cabby manoeuvred his spidery legs gingerly to the ground, and Captain Hennesey, one of the tallest men you ever saw, got out backward and gave a hand to his bride.

You don’t often find mariners marrying good-looking women. Their taste generally runs to something plain and homely. But this Mrs. Hennesey was—well, an excitement to look at. She was of average height, lithe as a puma, capable-looking as Hennesey himself. And,

by Jim, she had beauty! She had beauty and something more, a kind of radiance from within that lent high romance to her eyes, and gave to her whole face a quite remarkably animated appearance. She walked like an aristocrat, as I believe she was, and she loved Hennesey with a passion that was reflected in her every movement.

Hennesey had suggested a honeymoon in the south of France; thought she would like the gaiety, the sun, and the turquoise seas you get there. But no. She was set, curiously enough, on spending the honeymoon in the John Blount. Hennesey had pointed out the drawbacks, as that there was absolutely nothing to do on board a dirty ship berthed by the dockside, and still less to do in Liverpool. No matter. She was inflexibly bent on it. Of course, Hennesey didn’t object for himself.

He could be happy anywhere with her, so long as she herself was content, and nowhere more than with the deck of his own command beneath his feet.

Well, Hennesey limped aboard — he had an artificial leg —with his bride on his arm, prouder than Lucifer. Her delight in the ship warmed him.

He himself loved all ships, though he often professed to hate them, and to find in her this

fellow-feeling was a joy which he fully appreciated.

He had some business to attend to that night, and, as she was feeling a little tired, he left her in the saloon, where she assured him she would be quite comfortable with a book.

She changed when he had gone, and did her hair in a new fashion which suited her well. She had on a lowcut evening gown of black satin, which brought out her really startling good looks with entrancing effect. Hennesey was a queer husband for her; a fellow of rather sombre disposition, with a load of imagined care on his shoulders. He was forever troubled about his ship, about the weather, about the cargo; forever dissatisfied with his lot and with his officers. Still, he was an imposing, dignified, likeable sort of man. There are lots of masters who are melancholy and none the worse for it. Personally, I’m not so fond of the spry, slick, self-confident kind who know it all. Hennesey was solid, honest as the daylight, conscientious to a split hair, dependable as the stars a master mariner of the best type.

r"PHE saloon of the John Blount was much the same as a hundred others you’ll have seen—all gilt and red plush. Hennesey had realized the necessity of making it a little more attractive against the coming of his bride, and he had had curtains put up at the ports, and a few of the bright pictures she liked hung on the bulkheads. He had also managed to persuade the owners to lay a new linoleum, and at his own cost a very special easy chair had been added to the sparse furniture. Even the maxim which graced the after bulkhead, “He only is great who can command himself,’’ glowed to a recent application of gold leaf, and the frame of the mirror beneath it flashed new w’hite enamel.

Mrs. Hennesey was seated in the easy chair when one of those vague impulses which we explain as instinct prompted her to raise her head. She raised it slowly,

almost stealthily, and found herself peering into the mirror. The mirror gave her a full view of the saloon door, and framed in it was a man.

She caught her breath, and her heart began to beat heavily. You see, there hadn’t been the sound of a footstep—the fellow seemed suddenly to have materialized out of another dimension. Plainly, he hadn’t noticed that she was watching him via the mirror, for his eyes were still on her. He was a short, stockily-built, bearded fellow, with a skin the color of tobacco, and eyes that were big and womanlike in their languorousness. He remained quite still by the door, staring, staring. How much longer he might stay there if left alone Mrs. Hennesey was not anxious to discover, and when she was sure of her voice she rose and faced about. In a not very interested tone of voice she asked: “Are you looking for someone?”

Not in the least embarrassed, he bowed. “I am looking for the captain,” he said.

“Captain Hennesey is on shore at present,” she told him; adding, in a manner that was reproof as well as explanation, “I am his wife.”

He bowed again.

“I had no idea. I was a little puzzled. I am the new chief mate, and I understood that Captain Hennesey was a single man.” “He was—until today.”

“May I offer my congratulations?”

“Thank you.”

Her eyes said plainly enough that the interview was at an end. She felt far from comfortable. Not once in her life had she known constraint in the presence of a man. But this fellow’s eyes were—well, scarcely nice to look at. They were, as I said, languorous, almost melting, but with something else deep down behind them; something indefinite yet evil, like the corpse of a murderer suspended deep in dark waters. And there was what might be described as a stealthy quality about his black, silky beard.

Well, the incident didn’t stay in her mind to any extent. She was by no means a nervous woman, and, too, she was wildly happy. She was on the threshold

of her first voyage, her honeymoon voyage to sea, and indisposed to trouble herself about the peculiarities of the chief mate. She simply credited him with one of those kinks that lonely seamen occasionally develop, and let it go at that. By the time Hennesey had returned and was launched in an eager discussion of the forthcoming trip, she had forgotten all about it.

rT'HE John Blount for the next two or three days -*• vibrated and clattered to the thunder of her donkeys. Mrs. Hennesey took note with excited eyes of the thrilling facts that cargo was coming in; that grimy, greasy men in overalls were about between decks and boiler rooms; that the funnel sported a plume of steam; and that her husband was anxiously busy with papers—romantic documents known as manifests. At last! At last the ship was to be unleashed, freed to roam her native element, a creature of high endeavor, proud and unafraid.

For three weeks Mrs. Hennesey was seasick. She hadn’t counted on that, and it was harder for her than most because of her pride. The humiliation of seasickness for a captain’s wife . . . that was the way she looked at it. However, Hennesey pretty soon reassured her with stories of masters who never went to sea without having to fight the old enemy.

All this time she kept to her cabin. It wasn’t such a

wearisome period as you’d imagine, either, for there was an intriguing phenomenon to be studied in the lulls of her illness in the person of Mr. Pike the chief mate.

“The chief mate, poor fellow,” announced Hennesey on the second morning out, “seems quite concerned about your welfare. And, I must say, he’s rather put me to shame, Norah. He sends you these with the hope that they might go some way toward making things more bearable for you.” “These” proved to be a really gorgeous bouquet of sweet peas.

“Thoughtful of him, isn’t it?” went on Hennesey. “It makes me feel no end of a lout.” If that bouquet made Hennesey feel a lout, heaven above knows what he must have felt at the end of two weeks ! Every morning there was a fresh bouquet of beautiful flowers. They seemed fresh from a garden— dewed, even. Captain Hennesey discovered afterward that the chief mate had imported them from a Liverpool florist in boxes of earth and had stowed them away in his cabin.

“It’s a very nice form,” said Hennesey, “for his queerness to take. Just fancy ! For the chief mate to go off like that, and lay

in a stock of ... remarkable! Still, as I say, a very nice form for his queerness to take. I’ve known men who preferred a hatchet on a dark night.”

Mrs. Hennesey had by this time grown used to the motion of the ship and was able to get on deck. Her husband at sea, she discovered, was a vastly different person

to the harbor husband. He seemed afflicted with a restlessness of the spirit that would not let him be still for a moment. On the bridge he paced up and down after the fashion of a man harassed by a demon. In his cabin he would cross to the port and gaze out to the far horizon, fetching deep sighs as if he were in the throes of wrestling with a melancholy difficulty. It became plain to her that there was no sort of remedy for this state of his mind ; that the kindest thing was to leave him to himself to exercise whatever evil thing possessed him. So, she would, on these occasions, repair on deck.

One night she was thus pacing the poop when she was arrested by a voice making a commonplace remark—something about the weather. She didn’t need to strain her ears in order to recognize the voice. It was the chief mate speaking. She had imagined herself

to be alone on the poop, and she was somewhat startled to find him approaching out of the gloom.

“Do you mind,” he asked, “if I join you in your walk? I am cursed with a feeling of loneliness at sea which I have never been able to shake off.”

Mrs. Hennesey felt that same sense of evil that she had noticed in the saloon that night. But she put this down to her foolish imagination. She remembered his flowers, and his talk of loneliness had stirred her to sympathy. So, crushing down as ungracious her feeling of distaste, she allowed him to fall in by her side as he walked.

The fellow’s loneliness was apparently on his mind. He talked for some time about nothing else.

“I might have been alone on the top of a peak. Nobody spoke in that ship. It seemed as though there were a conspiracy of dumbness. Never anything beyond a grunt. It was maddening. God spare me from ever shipping with their like.”

She murmured a sympathetic rejoinder, and he went on:

“I wonder if you know how strange a thing it is for a sailor to have a beautiful woman in his ship? You can scarcely understand the effect. It is unsettling. It fills one with longing, regrets, melancholy, happiness. All beauty is happiness to me. And you—heavens, how beautiful you are!”

Without a word she pointed to the captain’s open skylight at their feet. But the chief mate had gone beyond caution. He suddenly swept her up in a powerful embrace. Before she could grasp the situation he had kissed her on the lips. Again and again she struck at his face, but she might as well have battered at a rock.

At last, with a bitter laugh, he released her, and stepped back.

“Thus,” he said, “are masters’ tickets thrown away. Beauty has a lot to answer for, Mrs. Hennesey. I once knew a man who stepped aside to pluck a flower, and met his death. I have lost my career. It amounts to the same thing. I do not ask, nor do I expect mercy. I shall be in my cabin when the captain requires me.”

“You deserve all,” she said, pantingly, “that you have mentioned. But, so far as I urn concerned, the captain will not require you. Mind if it ever happens again ”

"Don’t ask me,” he put in, “to guarantee that it will not.”

“You must leave the ship when we get to Bangkok,” she told him.

“As you will. A lot may happen before we reach Bangkok.”

THE glass had been falling for some time, and Captainr Hennesey, with his demon now really stirring him up, was in and out of the cabin like a pea on a drum, forever tapping the face of the aneroid, forever scowling at the darkling heavens. Once McGovern asked permission to stop engines to remedy a small defect, and the silence that ensued was appalling. There was not a breath in the hot air, and the sea was like solid crystal. And it was hot. The sky was like the roof of a kiln.

This could not go on for long. Very soon, asserted Captain Hennesey, something must crack. And crack it did. With amazing suddenness the sky was invisible,

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the sea was lashed to fury, and with a crash of thunder the storm leapt upon them.

The John Blount plunged and reared like a scared colt at the first onset, then settled down to show what she really could do in the way of rolling.

It was at this juncture that the chief mate, as if sensing instinctively what would happen, placed himself in readiness. He, you will understand, had been taking thought a good deal in the last day or two. So, when he felt the first blast of the storm, he rushed up on deck. He knew that Captain Hennesey would do the same thing, and he was prepared, quite coolly, to get rid of his commander. For him, nothing existed save the woman, mysterious and lovely, who was Captain Hennesey’s wife. He was ready. He waited like a stalking tiger for Captain Hennesey to appear.

As Mr. Pike had expected, the Captain came rushing up from below. The ship gave a sudden lurch as he emerged from the hatchway, flinging him against the starboard rail. Before he could recover himself, he found his legs pinioned in a powerful grip.

He had not the slightest idea, of course, that anything in the nature of foul play was intended. It occurred to him that someone else had been flung off his pins by that roll, and was clinging to him for support. He himself clung to the rail with both hands. He was dislodged a moment afterward by a sudden and violent jerk. He felt himself lifted high, and as he did so the first dread suspicion lit up his mind like a flash of lightning.

’He struggled, and let out a yell. No one could have heard him in that pandemonium, and in the next instant the chief mate exerted himself to a considerable feat of strength and hurled his weighty burden seaward.

'"THE John Blount hove to, wallowed in the ocean like an old packing case. It blew a gale. This was the third day of it, and it still blew without let, without mercy. As far as the eye could see, there was nothing but mile after mile of hissing rollers rushing on the staggering ship. She flung herself about. She rolled, tossed, dived, lurched, sprang upward quivering as if with fright, fell bodily into deep pits made by waves which at any moment seemed likely to engulf her. Those on board had to shout to make themselves heard above the unending shout of wind and roar of water. In the hold, the men struggled with shifting cargo. It was hell. And hell had its own particular devil in the shape of the chief mate.

He, while a foot of water sloshed from side to side of the saloon, bearing on its black surface various flotsam which the seasick steward was too far gone to rescue, sat with his legs braced against

the table. Facing him, attired for comfort’s sake in a cut-down skirt and high sea-boots. Mrs. Hennesey listened with a stony contempt while he talked.

Mr. Pike said, turning on her his smoldering, languorous eyes:

“We shall never make Bangkok. I doubt, indeed, whether we shall make anywhere at all. I am sorry . . . deeply sorry ... to be unable to offer you any hope. This has been an unfortunate voyage. Your bereavement ...”

“It is not a bereavement in the accepted sense,” she told him. “Nothing could ever take Arthur Hennesey from me. He watches over me now.”

She made the statement with a simple confidence that fell strangely on the ears of the chief mate. He looked at her with raised eyebrows.

She left the saloon, to return in a few moments with a book. It was Hennesey’s log. She opened it.

“What is the date today? The twentyfifth? Look!”

Mr. Pike looked, and read:

John Blount, at sea, twenty-fifth June. Ship badly water-logged, cargo shifted. Wind five, seas three. Making four knots.

“I suppose,” she said, “it is hardly necessary for me to say that I did not write it. You know his handwriting. I assure you I have had no practice as a forger.”

“Mrs. Hennesey,” said the chief mate, “if you think to scare me by this sort of thing, you will be disappointed. I am not so easily scared. You tell me that you have had no practice as a forger. I can only reply that they are born, not made. There can be no one else in the ship who would have any motive for keeping the late captain’s log. You know that I love you. You know that I shall, in my own good time, go to the utmost lengths to convince you of my love. And you seek to divert me by this . . . this jiggery-pokery? It is useless.”

“You need further evidence?” she said. “Turn to the twenty-second.”

The chief mate waved the book away impatiently. “I have no time for this nonsense,” he said.

Came a sudden lull in the storm. Comparative quiet fell on the saloon. The John Blount was for a few moments miraculously steady. And in that stillness could be heard distinctly the calm voice of Mrs. Hennesey, as she read aloud: John Blount, at sea, twenty-second June. Sky overcast. Glass twentyseven-forty. Storm broke at six-fiftynine. I rushed on deck, and was thrown by the sudden roll to the star-

board rail. Just as six bells were struck I felt myself pinioned by the legs. I shouted and struggled, but before help could arrive was lifted bodily and thrown overboard by Mr. Pike, whose beard came in contact with my hand.

\\7ELL, you can imagine the effect of W that on the chief mate. You see, he knew that nobody—positively not a soul—had seen him do it. He. could account for every soul in the ship. He knew, for instance, that Mrs. Hennesey at the time when his black deed was done had been in her cabin. He knew that the second was on the bridge, and—besides, it was black as pitch. He went ghastly white. His black eyes showed up like live coals in his pallid face.

“You’re lying, curse you!” he said at last. “Let me see it! Let me see it for myself !”

He read for himself, his hand shaking so that he could scarcely hold the book. There it was, in Hennesey’s authentic handwriting:

Thrown overboard by Mr, Pike, whose beard came in contact with my hand.

Who else could have known about the beard. Who else? Mr. Pike sat back on the settee, trembling. The impossible, the supernatural was happening under his very nose. The truth, the ghastly truth was that Hennesey had written that entry in the log; Hennesey, who was dead, drowned, gone forever.

“More than that to scare me,” he muttered between lips drained of blood. “You’re a clever woman, but it’s got to stop. Understand? It’s got to stop. If it doesn’t ...”

He laughed.

“Well, I believe in ghosts, as ghosts. But when they get to pen and ink . . . no. Some simple explanation. What the devil does it matter, anyway? Haven’t I got you? You, my queen, my enchantress, the loveliest thing that ever drew breath? Oh, I shan’t hurt you . . . not yet. There’s a time for everything, and I’m a patient man.”

Mr. Pike might have gone on to pass further remarks, but just then the seas struck the ship a blow of phenomenal violence. Everything in her that was movable fetched up against the port bulkheads with a'crash.

The ship rattled her insides like pills in a box. It seemed as though she never would right herself, and those two in the saloon, struggling in the water that had piled up to port, viewed with what they thought were dying eyes the spectacle of the deck rising sheer above them like a cliff. However, ships are bonny fighters, and the old tub found her keel again with another awful rumble of loose gear. Someone banged on the saloon door, and yelled:

"The galley has gone, sir, and part of the charthouse. Will you come on deck?”

From the bridge Mr. Pike surveyed the damage. There were some hundreds of tons of water in the well-deck—it was coming aboard faster than the scuppers could deal with it and now and again a saucepan, a cap, or a boot bobbed up into the light, was seen dimly, and vanished with the roll of the ship. And she rolled. She rolled with a clatter of loose cargo, with a banging of iron doors, with a thunder of racing propellers. And all the time her bell tolled dolefully like a funeral bell.

Mr. Pike, in the exigency of the moment, forgot his queen, the loveliest thing that ever breathed; forgot even the handwriting in the captain’s log. He wished only for light. There was no star, no firmament, nothing but the merciless roar of wind and pounding sea. The men were pumping now, pumping literally for dear life. It was hard, it was back-breaking work, wasted work. For the sea mocked them as they pumped. It swung

inboard with a shock that staggered the ship in her tracks, cruelly filling up to the brim every space in her that would hold water. It was the end, and Mr. Pike knew it.

It was the end. The men at the pumps, with weary, lined, grimy faces, were casting anxious glances at the boats. The ship was down by the head. They stopped pumping, and the sea poured into her, over her, and they looked on stony-eyed, dazed, uncaring. Hell, they thought, had got a grip on the John Blount, and no mortal power could save her. So Mr. Pike gave the order, and they rushed for the boats, donning lifebelts as they ran.

They were all ready in the twinkling of an eye, sitting in the boats at their davits, looking fearfully down with ashen faces at the boiling sea. Snatches of shouting were heard in the lulls. “Are you coming, sir? And Mrs. Hennesey?” Then the second mate took up the cry. “You’d better hurry, sir. Are you coming? I’m going to lower away before we’re stove.”

“Lower away,” called Mr. Pike. "We’re staying with the ship.”

'"PENACITY and singleness of purpose

the chief mate had, you see. He had locked Mrs. Hennesey in her cabin, for he was determined that she should sink or swim with him. Was he mad? The fact is that no doctor would certify him at the court of enquiry, but he must surely have been unbalanced. And one can understand it. I should say he had never been mentally strong, and Mrs. Hennesey was a woman of many attractions.

WTell, he stood gazing at the spot where the last boat had been for some time, then he went below. He found on unlocking her cabin door that it was impossible to open it. She had barricaded it on the inside. He called out that she had better leave the cabin, that the ship was down by the head and likely to founder at any moment. But she made no reply.

“I’ll give you ten minutes,” he warned. “Then, if you’re not out of it, I shall break in the door.”

With that he went for’ard again to have a look at the ship’s head. It appeared to be much the same. Moreover, the wind had veered, and the sea was decreasing. He thought he would have a drink on the strength of that. He was mixing himself a peg when something brought him up short, with his glass in mid-air—the sound of a footstep on deck . . . the sound of Captain Hennesey’s footstep ... of his limp.

Mr. Pike didn't know that the glass had fallen in splinters at his feet. He stood as if carved in stone, white as clay, every pore of his skin tingling to the shocking sound above. There was no mistaking that limp. It was distinctive, characteristic, real.

An age passed while the chief mate stood rooted to the floor of his cabin. Then he began moving stealthily toward the door. He put out his head with a ghastly apprehension as to what he might see. There was nothing. He tried the door of Mrs. Hennesey’s cabin. It was still barricaded.

Well, he would search the ship. "Some devil,” he muttered, "has stayed behind to play this trick.”

He peered in at the fo’c’sle door, and as he did so the lights slowly went out as the steam failed. He shook as with an ague. His teeth chattered. Suddenly he found himself running madly, blindly. He ran on until he could run no farther, and found himself on the bridge. Here, groping around for the emergency oillamp, he lit it and leaned on the desk, breathing heavily. And presently, his face froze into rigid lines, his eyes started, and blasphemy poured from his lips in a hysterical stream. For his glance had fallen on the open log, and the log said, in the handwriting of Captain Hennesey:

John Blount, at sea, twenty-sixth

June. Ship down by the head. Hands

abandoned ship at four bells in the first watch. Myself, my wife, and the chief mate left on board.

CAN you imagine the man’s feelings?

There he was, to all intents and purposes alone; alone in the ship with a ghost for company; a ghost that he never saw, a ghost that was beyond all reason with its caligraphy and its tramping about. Put a man in an empty ship at night; put him in a ship with its small

sounds and its dark spaces, and he will be ready to believe anything. That night the chief mate slept the sound sleep of the drunken.

He awoke in an utter stillness that he was at a loss to make out. He was fuddled. He imagined vaguely that he had been long dead and gone to a hell for sailors until, putting his head out of the port, he saw the sea without a ripple on its glassy surface. The John Blount was

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motionless in the midst of it like a fly in amber, the floating corpse of a broken ship. Then memory came back to him, leaving him shaking with fear.

Anxiously alert for the slightest sound, he dressed. He could hear sounds of movement in Mrs. Hennesey’s cabin over the way, and his appetite was sharpened. If only he could hold her in his arms and feel her heart beating against his—ah! What ghost would worry him then?

He didn’t knock on her door this time. He was in no mood for parley. One blow of his axe splintered a panel. Through the resulting hole he could see her, fully dressed, weary-looking, but beautiful as an eastern dawn. He raised his axe for a second blow—a blow that was never struck, for in that moment six bells sounded on deck.

Just as six bells were struck I felt

myself pinioned by the legs.

Mr. Pike dropped his axe. He got himself by some means on deck, and there he stood gazing, gazing, with a queer kind of shocked enquiry on his face. The figure standing by the bell— the figure of Captain Hennesey—gazed back. Then it began to limp forward, and Mr. Pike with a shriek went overboard.

* I 'HEY got the chief mate out all right— -*• a lifebuoy on the end of a grass line— and locked him up in his cabin, and handed him over, ten hours later, to the captain of the War Lord who took them off. By “them” I mean Captain Hennesey and his wife, for Hennesey it was in the flesh. You’ll have heard of men being washed overboard in rough weather, and washed back by the next wave? That’s what happened to Hennesey.

Hennesey was washed back on board with his artificial leg smashed. He knew very well that he couldn’t tackle the chief mate in that state. Also, he guessed that the chief probably had a revolver, and would be prepared to enforce his will with it. So he let his wife know what the game was, and lay low. The idea of playing ghost occurred to him afterward, and as a means of breaking Mr. Pike’s nerve it proved singularly effective.

They got the John Blount into Bangkok, after all. She went in at the end of fifty fathoms of tow-line. And there, of all pleasant things, they found the crew. You’d think that experience would have cured Mrs. Hennesey for all time of her love for ships. But, bless you, no! She’s sailed many seas with Hennesey since, and I dare say she’ll sail many more. What? Well,yes. A pint, I think. Thanks!