Some of his side have been talking about them. But he's
too jolly pig-headed to see anything. He just curses his chaps, and puts
it all down to them." "Still," he persisted, "things seem to happen more in our watch than in
his--I mean, bigger things. Look at tonight." "We've no proof, you know," I said. He shook his head, doubtfully. "I shall always funk going aloft, now." "Nonsense!" I told him. "It may only have been an accident." "Don't!" he said. "You know you don't think so, really." I answered nothing, just then; for I knew very well that he was right. We were silent for a couple of moments. Then he spoke again:

"Is the ship haunted?" For an instant I hesitated. "No," I said, at length. "I don't think she is. I mean, not in that
way." "What way, then?" "Well, I've formed a bit of a theory, that seems wise one minute, and
cracked the next. Of course, it's as likely to be all wrong; but it's
the only thing that seems to me to fit in with all the beastly things
we've had lately." "Go on!" he said, with an impatient, nervous movement. "Well, I've an idea that it's nothing _in_ the ship that's likely to
hurt us. I scarcely know how to put it; but, if I'm right in what I
think, it's the ship herself that's the cause of everything." "What do you mean?" he asked, in a puzzled voice. "Do you mean that the
ship _is_ haunted, after all?" "No!" I answered. "I've just told you I didn't. Wait until I've finished
what I was going to say." "All right!" he said. "About that thing you saw tonight," I went on. "You say it came over the
lee rail, up on to the poop?" "Yes," he answered. "Well, the thing I saw, _came up out of the sea, and went back into the
sea_." "Jove!" he said; and then: "Yes, go on!" "My idea is, that this ship is open to be boarded by those things," I
explained. "What they are, of course I don't know. They look like men--
in lots of ways. But--well, the Lord knows what's in the sea. Though we
don't want to go imagining silly things, of course. And then, again, you
know, it seems fat-headed, calling anything silly. That's how I keep
going, in a sort of blessed circle. I don't know a bit whether they're
flesh and blood, or whether they're what we should call ghosts or
spirits." "They can't be flesh and blood," Tammy interrupted. "Where would they
live? Besides, that first one I saw, I thought I could see through it. And this last one--the Second Mate would have seen it. And they would
drown--"

"Not necessarily," I said. "Oh, but I'm sure they're not," he insisted. "It's impossible--"

"So are ghosts--when you're feeling sensible," I answered. "But I'm not
saying they _are_ flesh and blood; though, at the same time, I'm not
going to say straight out they're ghosts--not yet, at any rate." "Where do they come from?" he asked, stupidly enough. "Out of the sea," I told him. "You saw for yourself!" "Then why don't other vessels have them coming aboard?" he said. "How do
you account for that?" "In a way--though sometimes it seems cracky--I think I can, according to
my idea," I answered. "How?" he inquired again. "Why, I believe that this ship is open, as I've told you--exposed,
unprotected, or whatever you like to call it. I should say it's
reasonable to think that all the things of the material world are
barred, as it were, from the immaterial; but that in some cases the
barrier may be broken down. That's what may have happened to this ship. And if it has, she may be naked to the attacks of beings belonging to
some other state of existence." "What's made her like that?" he asked, in a really awed sort of tone. "The Lord knows!" I answered. "Perhaps something to do with magnetic
stresses; but you'd not understand, and I don't, really. And, I suppose,
inside of me, I don't believe it's anything of the kind, for a minute. I'm not built that way. And yet I don't know! Perhaps, there may have
been some rotten thing done aboard of her. Or, again, it's a heap more
likely to be something quite outside of anything I know." "If they're immaterial then, they're spirits?" he questioned. "I don't know," I said. "It's so hard to say what I really think, you
know. I've got a queer idea, that my head-piece likes to think good; but
I don't believe my tummy believes it." "Go on!" he said. "Well," I said. "Suppose the earth were inhabited by two kinds of life. We're one, and _they're_ the other." "Go on!" he said. "Well," I said. "Don't you see, in a normal state we may not be capable
of appreciating the _realness_ of the other? But they may be just as
_real_ and material to _them_, as _we_ are to _us_. Do you see?" "Yes," he said. "Go on!" "Well," I said. "The earth may be just as _real_ to them, as to us. I
mean that it may have qualities as material to them, as it has to us;
but neither of us could appreciate the other's realness, or the quality
of realness in the earth, which was real to the other. It's so difficult
to explain. Don't you understand?" "Yes," he said. "Go on!" "Well, if we were in what I might call a healthy atmosphere, they would
be quite beyond our power to see or feel, or anything. And the same with
them; but the more we're like _this_, the more _real_ and actual they
could grow _to us_. See? That is, the more we should become able to
appreciate their form of materialness. That's all. I can't make it any
clearer." "Then, after all, you _really_ think they're ghosts, or something of
that sort?" Tammy said. "I suppose it does come to that," I answered. "I mean that, anyway, I
don't think they're our ideas of flesh and blood. But, of course, it's
silly to say much; and, after all, you must remember that I may be all
wrong." "I think you ought to tell the Second Mate all this," he said. "If it's
really as you say, the ship ought to be put into the nearest port, and
jolly well burnt." "The Second Mate couldn't do anything," I replied. "Even if he believed
it all; which we're not certain he would." "Perhaps not," Tammy answered. "But if you could get him to believe it,
he might explain the whole business to the Skipper, and then something
might be done. It's not safe as it is." "He'd only get jeered at again," I said, rather hopelessly. "No," said Tammy. "Not after what's happened tonight." "Perhaps not," I replied, doubtfully. And just then the Second Mate came
back on to the poop, and Tammy cleared away from the wheel-box, leaving
me with a worrying feeling that I ought to do something. VII


_The Coming of the Mist and That Which It Ushered_

We buried Williams at midday. Poor beggar! It had been so sudden. All
day the men were awed and gloomy, and there was a lot of talk about
there being a Jonah aboard. If they'd only known what Tammy and I, and
perhaps the Second Mate, knew! And then the next thing came--the mist. I cannot remember now, whether
it was on the day we buried Williams that we first saw it, or the day
after.