"Well?" I demanded.
"It was on the ledge," he said hoarsely. "I put it there myself.
All the time I was pounding, I kept saying that, if it was still there,
it was not true--I'd just fancied it. If the pouch was on the floor,
I'd know."
"Know what?"
"It was there," he said, looking over his shoulder. "It's been
there three times, looking in--all in white, and grinning at me."
"A man?"
"It--it hasn't got any face."
"How could it grin--at you if it hasn't any face?" I demanded
impatiently. "Pull yourself together and tell me what you saw."
It was some time before he could tell a connected story, and, when
he did, I was inclined to suspect that he had heard us talking the
night before, had heard Adams's description of the intruder on the
forecastle-head, and that, what with drink and terror, he had
fancied the rest. And yet, I was not so sure.
"I was asleep, the first time," he said. "I don't know how long
ago it was. I woke up cold, with the feeling that something was
looking at me. I raised up in bed, and there was a thing at the
window. It was looking in."
"What sort of a thing?"
"What I told you--white."
"A white head?"
"It wasn't a head. For God's sake, Leslie! I can't tell you any
more than that. I saw it. That's enough. I saw it three times.
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