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Scott, Michael, 1789-1835

"Tom Cringle's Log"

At this instant something slid down the stay, and a cold clammy hand
passed round my neck. I was within an ace of losing my hold, and tumbling
overboard. "Heaven have mercy on me, what's that?"
"It's that skylarking son of a gun, Jem Sparkle's monkey, sir. You, Jem,
you'll never rest till that brute is made shark bait of."
But Jackoo vanished up the stay again, chuckling and grinning in the
ghostly radiance, as if he had been the "Spirit of the Lamp." The light
was still there, but a cloud of mist, like a burst of vapour from a steam
boiler, came down upon the gale, and flew past, when it disappeared. I
followed the white mass as it sailed down the wind; it did not, as it
appeared to me, vanish in the darkness, but seemed to remain in sight to
leeward, as if checked by a sudden flaw; yet none of our sails were taken
aback. A thought flashed on me. I peered still more intensely into the
night. I was now certain. "A sail, broad on the lee bow."
The ship was in a buz in a moment. The Captain answered from the
quarterdeck--"Thank you, Mr Cringle. How shall we steer?"
"Keep her away a couple of points, sir, steady."
"Steady," sung the man at the helm; and the slow melancholy cadence,
although a familiar sound to me, now moaned through the rushing of the
wind, and smote upon my heart as if it had been the wailing of a spirit.
I turned to the boatswain, who was now standing beside me--"Is that you or
Davy Jones steering, Mr Nipper? if you had not been here bodilv at my
elbow, I could have sworn that was your voice.


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