e whole front of his face
was blown in, and the little room was swimming in blood. The pistol was
lying beside him on the floor, just as it had dropped from his hand. He
had evidently put it to his mouth before pulling the trigger. Goring
and I picked him reverently up and laid him on his bed. The crew had all
clustered into his cabin, and the six white men were deeply grieved, for
they were old hands who had sailed with him many years. There were dark
looks and murmurs among them too, and one of them openly declared that
the ship was haunted. Harton helped to lay the poor skipper out, and
we did him up in canvas between us. At twelve o'clock the foreyard was
hauled aback, and we committed his body to the deep, Goring reading the
Church of England burial service. The breeze has freshened up, and we
have done ten knots all day and sometimes twelve. The sooner we reach
Lisbon and get away from this accursed ship the better pleased shall I
be. I feel as though we were in a floating coffin.

Little wonder that the poor sailors are superstitious when I, an
educated man, feel it so strongly.

October 25.--Made a good run all day. Feel listless and depressed.

October 26.--Goring, Harton, and I had a chat together on deck in the
morning. Harton tried to draw Goring out as to his profession, and his
object in going to Europe, but the quadroon parried all his questions
and gave us no information. Indeed, he seemed to be slightly offended
by Harton's pertinacity, and went down into his cabin. I wonder why
we should both take such an interest in this man! I suppose it is his
striking appearance, coupled with his apparent wealth, which piques our
curiosity. Harton has a theory that he is really a detective, that he
is after some criminal who has got away to Portugal, and that he chooses
this peculiar way of travelling that he may arrive unnoticed and
pounce upon his quarry unawares. I think the supposition is rather a
far-fetched one, but Harton bases it upon a book which Goring left
on deck, and which he picked up and glanced over. It was a sort of
scrap-book it seems, and contained a large number of newspaper cuttings.
All these cuttings related to murders which had been committed at
various times in the States during the last twenty years or so. The
curious thing which Harton observed about them, however, was that they
were invariably murders the authors of which had never been brought
to justice. They varied in every detail,