“Where—where?” cried the doctor, excitedly, as he waddled out of the cabin, thoroughly earning the nickname the men had bestowed upon him of The Penguin. “Captain, get one of the casks ready for a specimen. I have never seen a ghost!”
“Ain’t he a rum beggar, skipper?” whispered Scudds, as we followed him on deck, where a knot of the crew were standing round one of the foremast-men, Tom Brown, whose face was covered with perspiration, his hair being plastered down upon his forehead.
“Well, where’s the ghost, my man?” said the doctor.
“Down in the hold, sir. You can hear him a-groaning!”
The doctor led the way down the open hatch; and I followed, to give him a push down, if he stuck fast, finding that there was something in the man’s alarm, for from out of the darkness came, every now and then, a deep, sighing groan.
“Why, there’s some one there!” cried the doctor.
“Here, quick, half a dozen of you!” I shouted, for an idea had just struck me; and, getting a lantern, I crept over some of the stores to where stood a row of casks, to one of which I traced the voice.
“Hallo!” I cried, tapping the cask; when there came a rustling noise from inside, and a tap or two seemed given by a hand.
“Found anything?” said the doctor, who had stuck fast between the stores and the deck.
“It’s a stowaway, I think,” I answered; and, creeping back, with the groans becoming more frequent, I gave orders, had some of the hatches taken off farther along the deck, and just over where the cask lay; and then, by means of some strong tackle, we hauled the cask out on deck, to find it only partly headed, and from out of it half slipped, half crawled, a pale, thin, ghastly looking young fellow, of about four or five-and-twenty.