I have never been gifted with what pedants miscall courage.  That extreme rashness of the temper which drives fools to their destruction hath no place in my disposition.  A shrinking meekness under provocation, and a commendable absence of body whenever blows fell thick, seemed always to me to be the better part.  And for this I have boldly endured many taunts.  Yet it so chanced that in my life I fell in with many to whom the cutting of throats was but a moment’s diversion.  Nay, more, in most of their astounding ventures I shared with them; I made one upon their reckless forays; I was forced, sorely against my will, to accompany them upon their stormy voyages, and to endure with them their dangers; and there does not live one man, since all of them are dead, and I alone survive, so well able as myself to narrate these matters faithfully within the compass of a single five-shilling volume.

CHAPTER II.

On a December evening of the year 17—­, ten men sat together in the parlour of “The Haunted Man.”  Without, upon the desolate moorland, a windless stricture of frost had bound the air as though in boards, but within, the tongues were loosened, and the talk flowed merrily, and the clink of steaming tumblers filled the room.  Dr. DEADEYE sat with the rest at the long deal table, puffing mightily at the brown old Broseley church-warden, whom the heat and the comfort of his evening meal had so far conquered, that he resented the doctor’s treatment of him only by an occasional splutter.  For myself, I sat where the warmth of the cheerful fire could reach my chilled toes, close by the side of the good doctor.  I was a mere lad, and even now, as I search in my memory for these long-forgotten scenes, I am prone to marvel at my own heedlessness in thus affronting these lawless men.  But, indeed, I knew them not to be lawless, or I doubt not but that my prudence had counselled me to withdraw ere the events befell which I am now about to narrate.

As I remember, the Doctor and Captain JAWKINS were seated opposite to one another, and, as their wont was, they were in high debate upon a question of navigation, on which the Doctor held and expressed an emphatic opinion.

“Never tell me,” he said, with flaming aspect, “that the common term, ‘Port your helm,’ implies aught but what a man, not otherwise foolish, would gather from the word.  Port means port, and starboard is starboard, and all the d——­d sea-captains in the world cannot move me from that.”  With that the Doctor beat his fist upon the table until the glasses rattled again and glared into the Captain’s weather-beaten face.[1]

“Hear the man,” said the Captain—­“hear him.  A man would think he had spent his days and nights upon the sea, instead of mixing pills and powders all his life in a snuffy village dispensary.”

The quarrel seemed like to be fierce, when a sudden sound struck upon our ears, and stopped all tongues.  I cannot call it a song.  Rather, it was like the moon-struck wailing of some unhappy dog, low, and unearthly; and yet not that, either, for there were words to it.  That much we all heard distinctly.