e back-ropes.
I did so, but he scrambled down, tumbling and clutching, and gripped me
just abaft the dolphin-striker. His face was twisted in frenzy, and he
growled and barked like a dog, occasionally breaking into a horrible,
rat-like squeal. But he didn't bite me; he simply squeezed me in both
arms, and in that effort lost his hold on the back-rope and fell,
taking me with him. We struck the water together, and his grip
loosened, for he was now up against something too strong for him--the
sound and sight and feeling of cold water. When we came up, the
cutwater was between us, and I didn't see him again, though I heard his
convulsive gurgling and screaming from the other side of the ship. Then
the sounds stopped, and I think he must have gone under; but I was too
busy with myself to speculate much. I was trying to get a finger-nail
grip on that smooth, black side slipping by me, but could not. There
was nothing to get hold of, and no ropes were hanging over. Then I
thought of the rudder and the iron bumpkin on it that the rudder-chains
fastened to, and swam with all my strength under the quarter as it came
along. But it was no good. The life-buoy hampered me in swimming, and I
missed the rudder by an inch.

"The ship went on and left me alone on the sea. I remember very little
of it. I think my mind must have slowly gone out of me, leaving me
another person. I remember a few sensations--and it only seems like a
week ago to me--one, of being alone on the surface of the sea at night,
supported by the life-buoy; and then, I seemed to be back among the
rats, but that was just as I wakened on your floor here. The next
sensation was the sight of you, and the sound of your voice, speaking
to me, and then the knowledge that I was really alive and ashore."

"And the woman out the Boston Road?" I inquired at length.

"I will write to her as I promised. But I will not go there. Boston is
too close to the sea."

FROM THE DARKNESS AND THE DEPTHS

I had known him for a painter of renown--a master of his art, whose
pictures, which sold for high prices, adorned museums, the parlors of
the rich, and, when on exhibition, were hung low and conspicuous. Also,
I knew him for an expert photographer--an "art photographer," as they
say, one who dealt with this branch of industry as a fad, an amusement,
and who produced pictures that in composition, lights, and shades
rivaled his productions with the brush.

His cameras were the