“I know that, sir; but a stranger is there, I assure you.”
“Go down again, Mr. Bruce, and ask his name.”
The mate hesitated. “I’m not a superstitious man,” said he; “but, hang it, I don’t relish the idea of facing him again alone.”
“Well, well,” said the captain, laughing, “I don’t mind accompanying you. This is not like you, Bruce, not like you at all—you’re not in liquor. It is a mere delusion.”
The captain descended the stairs accompanied by the mate; and, sure enough, the cabin was empty.
“There you are, convicted of dreaming,” said the former. “Did not I tell you as much?”
“I can’t say how it was, sir,” replied Bruce, “but I could take my oath on the Gospels that I saw a man writing on your slate.”
“If he wrote, there must be something to show for it,” said the captain, as he took up the slate, and at once exclaimed, “Why—good God! there is something here. Is this your fist, Mr. Bruce?”
The mate examined the slate, and there in plain, legible characters stood the words “STEER TO THE NOR’-WEST.”