“It’s me; Tim Stubbs.”
“What’s the matter?”
“There’s a ghost, sir, come out of the forecastle hatch.”
“Have you turned fool?” the officer asked, angrily, and I dimly understood that it was Mr. Fernald, the second mate, who was speaking.
“It’s a ghost all the same, sir,” the man replied, in quavering tones, while at that moment the shape, or whatever it might be, seemed to fade away, and on the instant was gone.
“It is out of sight now, sir,” some one shouted from near the foremast; “but it was a ghost all the same, an’ that I’ll swear to!”
“Get below there, Stubbs, an’ see who’s trying to make a fool of you,” Mr. Fernald cried, whereat the sailor slouched slowly off, muttering to himself, and I knew full well that if any search was to be made Tim Stubbs would not be the one to conduct it.
Immediately the apparition, if so it can be called, had vanished, one could hear from this point and that on deck the voices of the men in hoarse whispers or mutterings, thus showing that nearly all of the watch had seen the singular thing.
Mr. Fernald most likely understood that the discipline of the ship depended upon putting an end to any such fancy as that we had a ghost aboard.