"No. What thing should I see?"
"Who knows, Martin? But the sea aren't the land, and here on these wild wastes o' waters there's chancy things beyond any man's wisdom as any mariner'll—ha, what's yon?" says he under his breath and whipping round, knife in hand. "'Twas like a shoeless foot, Mart'n ... creeping murder ... 'Tis there again!" Speaking, he tore open the door and I saw his knife flash as he sprang into the darkness beyond; as for me I quaffed my ale. Presently back he comes, claps to the door (mighty careful) and sinking upon the upturned cask, mops at his brow.
"Content you, Godby," says I, "here be no ghosts—"
"Soft, lad—speak soft!" he whispered. "For—Lord love you, Mart'n, 'tis worse than ghosts as I do fear! Dog bite me, pal, here's been black and bloody doings aboard us this last two nights."
"How so, Godby?" I questioned, lowering my voice in turn as I met his look.
"I mean, lad, as this thing—call it ghost or what ye will—has took three men these last two nights. There's Perks o' Deptford, McLean as hails from Leith, and Treliving the Cornishman—three good men, Mart'n—lost, vanished, gone! And, O pal, wi' never a mark or trace to tell how!"
"Lost! D'ye mean—overboard?"
"No, Mart'n, I mean—lost! And each of them i' the middle watch—the sleepy hour, Mart'n, just afore dawn. In a fair night, pal, wi' a calm sea—these men vanish and none to see 'em go. And all of 'em prime sailor-men and trusty. The which, Mart'n, sets a cove to wondering who'll be next."
"But are you sure they are gone?"
"Aye, Mart'n, we've sought 'em alow and aloft, all over the ship, save only this hole o' yourn—the which you might ha' known had ye slept less."