Then I turned to Williams, hurriedly.

“Look here, Williams,” I said.  “If you think there is really a danger in your being alone up here—­” I hesitated for words to express what I meant.  Then I went on.  “Well, I’ll jolly well stay up with you.”

The Second Mate’s voice came again.

“Come on now, one of you!  Make a move!  What the hell are you doing?”

“Coming, Sir!” I sung out.

“Shall I stay?” I asked definitely.

“Garn!” he said.  “Don’t yer fret yerself.  I’ll tike er bloomin’ piy-diy out of ’er.  Blarst ’em.  I ain’t funky of ’em.”

I went.  That was the last word Williams spoke to anyone living.

I reached the decks, and tailed on to the haulyards.

We had nearly mast-headed the yard, and the Second Mate was looking up at the dark outline of the sail, ready to sing out “Belay”; when, all at once, there came a queer sort of muffled shout from Williams.

“Vast hauling, you men,” shouted the Second Mate.

We stood silent, and listened.

“What’s that, Williams?” he sung out.  “Are you all clear?”

For nearly half a minute we stood, listening; but there came no reply.  Some of the men said afterwards that they had noticed a curious rattling and vibrating noise aloft that sounded faintly above the hum and swirl of the wind.  Like the sound of loose ropes being shaken and slatted together, you know.  Whether this noise was really heard, or whether it was something that had no existence outside of their imaginations, I cannot say.  I heard nothing of it; but then I was at the tail end of the rope, and furthest from the fore rigging; while those who heard it were on the fore part of the haulyards, and close up to the shrouds.

The Second Mate put his hands to his mouth.

“Are you all clear there?” he shouted again.

The answer came, unintelligible and unexpected.  It ran like this: 

“Blarst yer ...  I’ve styed ...  Did yer think ... drive ... bl—­y piy-diy.”  And then there was a sudden silence.

I stared up at the dim sail, astonished.

“He’s dotty!” said Stubbins, who had been told to come off the look-out and give us a pull.

“‘e’s as mad as a bloomin’ ’atter,” said Quoin, who was standing foreside of me. “’e’s been queer all along.”

“Silence there!” shouted the Second Mate.  Then: 

“Williams!”

No answer.

“Williams!” more loudly.

Still no answer.

Then: 

“Damn you, you jumped-up cockney crocodile!  Can’t you hear?  Are you blooming-well deaf?”

There was no answer, and the Second Mate turned to me.

“Jump aloft, smartly now, Jessop, and see what’s wrong!”