“Ship ahoy!”
“Ship yourself!” was the response.
“What’s your name?”
“What’s yours!”
“Syncope—Britannic Majesty’s seventy-nine—for Trinidad.”
“Yung Fraw—merchant ship, for Rotterdam.”
“What cargo?”
“Soap!” was the reply. “How are YOU off for it? Ha! ha! ha!”
A peal of diabolic laughter rolled across the deep, mingled with the rushing of the waves and the whistling of the winds. Another flash—another report—and the meteor light sunk as noiselessly as it had arisen into the bosom of the watery surge. At that moment the moon burst out from behind a cloud, clear and queenlike, illuminating the ocean for miles. We rushed to the stern and looked back. In vain! no vestige of a ship was there—we were alone upon the warring waters!
“By the Lord Harry!” said the bos’un, dropping the trumpet—“as sure as my name’s Josh Junk, that ’ere was the Flying Dutchman!” - - - - -