A deep, baleful laugh greeted the remark. It was from Von Rotterdaam.
"He is! And I am revenged!" he said, in tones which seemed to come from the centre of the earth, and then he vanished—I hope, forever.
I rushed madly out and called for Sullivan, but the only answer was the grating of the saw's teeth. (Dear me! how dark it is getting! I must really not linger with details.) My only answer was the grating of the saw's teeth upon the bottom of my devoted vessel. Shrieking, I clambered down into the hold, but too late. Just as I got there the yard square of planking was burst in by the waters, and the vessel was doomed.
"Well, captain," I said to myself, a great calm coming over my soul, "it's all up with you; now think of others. Those at home, not hearing from you, will be worried. Go to your cabin, and, like a dutiful man, make your report."
This I have done, and this narrative is my report. I hope it will reach its destination in safety, and that the world may yet learn that in the hour of peril, which has but one conclusion, I have been faithful and calm.
It is now the 16th day of June, 1640. I shall never see the 17th, and I am resigned to my fate. And now for the bottle ... now for the cork.... Blithering cyclones! the door is cracking open ... and now—one—two—three—to open the port ... wait. I must put in one final P.S. In case this story ever reaches the land, will the finder kindly be careful in correcting the proof and see that my name is spelled correctly? There is just a moment in which to write it plainly—RUDOLF—with an F, mark you, not a PH, and HAMMERPESTLE with two M's. And so—the port....
There the story ends, and here it is for the world to see. What followed Captain Hammerpestle's last word we can only surmise. Pumpernickel and I have been faithful to the trust unwittingly committed to our care by one who has been dead for a trifle over two hundred and sixty years. We have only to add that those who do not believe that the story is true can see the water-bottle at the home of Herr Pumpernickel at Schnitzelhammerstein-on-the-Zugvitz at any time; but as for the manuscript and the ghost of the pirate Von Rotterdaam, we do not know where they are. The latter we have ourselves never seen, and the former was, as usual, mislaid by the talented young person who undertook to make a type-written copy of it for us a few days after our discovery.