“That you, Jessop?” he asked.

“I believe it is,” I replied.

“We’d ‘ave our gran’mothers an’ all the rest of our petticoated relash’ns comin’ to sea, if ’twere always like this,” he remarked, reflectively—­indicating, with a sweep of his pipe and hand, the calmness of the sea and sky.

I saw no reason for denying that, and he continued: 

“If this ole packet is ’aunted, as some on ’em seems to think, well all as I can say is, let me ’ave the luck to tumble across another of the same sort.  Good grub, an’ duff fer Sundays, an’ a decent crowd of ’em aft, an’ everythin’ comfertable like, so as yer can feel yer knows where yer are.  As fer ‘er bein’ ’aunted, that’s all ’ellish nonsense.  I’ve comed ’cross lots of ’em before as was said to be ‘aunted, an’ so some on ’em was; but ’twasn’t with ghostesses.  One packet I was in, they was that bad yer couldn’t sleep a wink in yer watch below, until yer’d ’ad every stitch out yer bunk an’ ’ad a reg’lar ’unt.  Sometimes—­” At that moment, the relief, one of the ordinary seamen, went up the other ladder on to the fo’cas’le head, and the old chap turned to ask him “Why the ’ell” he’d not relieved him a bit smarter.  The ordinary made some reply; but what it was, I did not catch; for, abruptly, away aft, my rather sleepy gaze had lighted on something altogether extraordinary and outrageous.  It was nothing less than the form of a man stepping inboard over the starboard rail, a little abaft the main rigging.  I stood up, and caught at the handrail, and stared.

Behind me, someone spoke.  It was the look-out, who had come down off the fo’cas’le head, on his way aft to report the name of his relief to the second mate.

“What is it, mate?” he asked, curiously, seeing my intent attitude.

The thing, whatever it was, had disappeared into the shadows on the lee side of the deck.

“Nothing!” I replied, shortly; for I was too bewildered then, at what my eyes had just shown me, to say any more.  I wanted to think.

The old shellback glanced at me; but only muttered something, and went on his way aft.

For a minute, perhaps, I stood there, watching; but could see nothing.  Then I walked slowly aft, as far as the after end of the deck house.  From there, I could see most of the main deck; but nothing showed, except, of course, the moving shadows of the ropes and spars and sails, as they swung to and fro in the moonlight.

The old chap who had just come off the look-out, had returned forrard again, and I was alone on that part of the deck.  And then, all at once, as I stood peering into the shadows to leeward, I remembered what Williams had said about there being too many “shadders.”  I had been puzzled to understand his real meaning, then.  I had no difficulty now.  There were too many shadows.  Yet, shadows or no shadows, I realised that for my own peace of mind, I must settle, once and for all, whether the thing I had seemed to see stepping aboard out of the ocean, had been a reality, or simply a phantom, as you might say, of my imagination.  My reason said it was nothing more than imagination, a rapid dream—­I must have dozed; but something deeper than reason told me that this was not so.  I put it to the test, and went straight in amongst the shadows—­ There was nothing.