"I saw it
gleaming."
"Gleaming?"
"Sort of shining," he explained. "It came up over the rail, and
at first it stood up tall, like a white post."
"You didn't say before that it was white."
"It was shining," he said slowly, trying to put his idea into
words. "Maybe not exactly white, but light-colored. It stood
still for so long, I thought I must be mistaken--that it was a
light on the rigging. Then I got to thinking that there wasn't
no place for a light to come from just there."
That was true enough.
"First it was as tall as a man, or taller maybe," he went on.
"Then it seemed about half that high and still in the same place.
Then it got lower still, and it took to crawling along on its
belly. It was then I yelled."
I looked down. The green starboard light threw a light over
only a small part of the deck. The red light did no better. The
masthead was possibly thirty feet above the hull, and served no
illuminating purpose whatever. From the bridge forward the deck
was practically dark.
"You yelled, and then what happened?"
His reply was vague--troubled.
"I'm not sure," he said slowly. "It seemed to fade away. The white
got smaller--went to nothing, like a cloud blown away in a gale.
I flung the spike."
I accepted the story with outward belief and a mental reservation.
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