Clif drew himself up. His face, seen in the light cast by a hand lantern, reddened.
“Yes, dreaming. You have been asleep, sir,” insisted Lieutenant Watson, whose temper was not the best. “It is a grave breach of discipline, and I warn you to keep awake on watch in the future.”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” replied Clif, respectfully, but with firmness. “I must deny having been asleep. I have walked back and forth across decks during the whole watch. I passed the call at each bell, and I know I saw what I have claimed.”
“Where is it, then?”
Clif glanced out across the water, which foamed and leaped in giant billows under the force of the gale. The air was filled with flying spume, and rain beat downward with steady persistency. It was a wild night.
The thick mist hemmed the ship in a black horizon, and naught was visible to the curious eyes of the group on the forecastle. Several of the cadets laughed, and one said in a tone plainly audible:
“He saw the Flying Dutchman, I guess.”
The words did not escape Clif, but he gave no sign of having heard them other than one quick glance at the speaker.
“I do not know where the ship is now, sir,” he replied, steadily, to the executive officer’s question, “but I am certain I saw one. It was nothing but a hulk with two masts having curious round cages at the top. There weren’t any yards or sails visible.”
“You are describing a lightship, Faraday,” said Lieutenant Watson, smiling incredulously. “And there are none within fifty miles of us. Take my advice and do not cultivate the habit of riding nightmares on watch.”