Captain Ross glanced down from his bridge toward the poop. There—among coils of tarry rope and a mass of canvas, iron, life-buoys, and other carefully stowed gear— a patch of white, woolly fog wavered and drifted. The captain snatched up a pair of binoculars and looked long and earnestly. "Go down and see," he ordered.
The third mate saluted and went. His face was white as he turned to obey. Captain Ross watched while he made his way to deck B and thence to the poop, saw him go forward, hesitate, peer at the eddying fog. Suddenly he threw up his hands with a startled gesture and turned to run.
"Good God! It's after him!"
Captain Ross gripped the rail under his hands as he spoke, and leaned over to watch with eyes almost starting out of his head. Stumbling, running, turning to look back
