It was there, whimpering to itself, searching for
something--the sheet. As I steadied Mac, it passed me. I caught
at it. Immediately the struggle began all over again. But this
time we had the advantage, and kept it. After a battle that seemed
to last all night, and that was actually fought all over that part
of the deck, we held the creature subdued, and Mac, getting a hand
free, struck a match.
It was Charlie Jones.
That, after all, is the story. Jones was a madman, a homicidal
maniac of the worst type. Always a madman, the homicidal element
of his disease was recurrent and of a curious nature.
He thought himself a priest of heaven, appointed to make ghastly
sacrifices at certain signals from on high. The signals I am not
sure of; he turned taciturn after his capture and would not talk.
I am inclined to think that a shooting star, perhaps in a particular
quarter of the heavens, was his signal. This is distinctly
possible, and is made probable by the stars which he had painted
with tar on his sacrificial robe.
The story of the early morning of August 12 will never be fully
known; but much of it, in view of our knowledge, we were able to
reconstruct. Thus--Jones ate his supper that night, a mild and
well-disposed individual. During the afternoon before, he had read
prayers for the soul of Schwartz, in whose departure he may or may
not have had a part I am inclined to think not, Jones construing
his mission as being one to remove the wicked and the oppressor,
and Schwartz hardly coming under either classification.
Pages:
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206