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Chapter 6 Mina Murray's Journal

  • 24 July. Whitby.—Lucy met me at the station, looking sweeter and lovlier tha_ver, and we drove up to the house at the Crescent in which they have rooms.
  • This is a lovely place. The little river, the Esk, runs through a deep valley, which broadens out as it comes near the harbour. A great viaduct runs across, with high piers, through which the view seems somehow further away than i_eally is. The valley is beautifully green, and it is so steep that when yo_re on the high land on either side you look right across it, unless you ar_ear enough to see down. The houses of the old town—the side away from us, ar_ll red-roofed, and seem piled up one over the other anyhow, like the picture_e see of Nuremberg. Right over the town is the ruin of Whitby Abbey, whic_as sacked by the Danes, and which is the scene of part of "Marmion," wher_he girl was built up in the wall. It is a most noble ruin, of immense size, and full of beautiful and romantic bits. There is a legend that a white lad_s seen in one of the windows. Between it and the town there is anothe_hurch, the parish one, round which is a big graveyard, all full o_ombstones. This is to my mind the nicest spot in Whitby, for it lies righ_ver the town, and has a full view of the harbour and all up the bay to wher_he headland called Kettleness stretches out into the sea. It descends s_teeply over the harbour that part of the bank has fallen away, and some o_he graves have been destroyed.
  • In one place part of the stonework of the graves stretches out over the sand_athway far below. There are walks, with seats beside them, through th_hurchyard, and people go and sit there all day long looking at the beautifu_iew and enjoying the breeze.
  • I shall come and sit here often myself and work. Indeed, I am writing now, with my book on my knee, and listening to the talk of three old men who ar_itting beside me. They seem to do nothing all day but sit here and talk.
  • The harbour lies below me, with, on the far side, one long granite wal_tretching out into the sea, with a curve outwards at the end of it, in th_iddle of which is a lighthouse. A heavy seawall runs along outside of it. O_he near side, the seawall makes an elbow crooked inversely, and its end to_as a lighthouse. Between the two piers there is a narrow opening into th_arbour, which then suddenly widens.
  • It is nice at high water, but when the tide is out it shoals away to nothing, and there is merely the stream of the Esk, running between banks of sand, wit_ocks here and there. Outside the harbour on this side there rises for abou_alf a mile a great reef, the sharp of which runs straight out from behind th_outh lighthouse. At the end of it is a buoy with a bell, which swings in ba_eather, and sends in a mournful sound on the wind.
  • They have a legend here that when a ship is lost bells are heard out at sea. _ust ask the old man about this. He is coming this way …
  • He is a funny old man. He must be awfully old, for his face is gnarled an_wisted like the bark of a tree. He tells me that he is nearly a hundred, an_hat he was a sailor in the Greenland fishing fleet when Waterloo was fought.
  • He is, I am afraid, a very sceptical person, for when I asked him about th_ells at sea and the White Lady at the abbey he said very brusquely,
  • "I wouldn't fash masel' about them, miss. Them things be all wore out. Mind, _on't say that they never was, but I do say that they wasn't in my time. The_e all very well for comers and trippers, an' the like, but not for a nic_oung lady like you. Them feet-folks from York and Leeds that be alway_atin'cured herrin's and drinkin' tea an' lookin' out to buy cheap jet woul_reed aught. I wonder masel' who'd be bothered tellin' lies to them, even th_ewspapers, which is full of fool-talk."
  • I thought he would be a good person to learn interesting things from, so _sked him if he would mind telling me something about the whale fishing in th_ld days. He was just settling himself to begin when the clock struck six, whereupon he laboured to get up, and said,
  • "I must gang ageeanwards home now, miss. My granddaughter doesn't like to b_ept waitin' when the tea is ready, for it takes me time to crammle aboon th_rees, for there be a many of `em, and miss, I lack belly-timber sairly by th_lock."
  • He hobbled away, and I could see him hurrying, as well as he could, down th_teps. The steps are a great feature on the place. They lead from the town t_he church, there are hundreds of them, I do not know how many, and they win_p in a delicate curve. The slope is so gentle that a horse could easily wal_p and down them. I think they must originally have had something to do wit_he abbey. I shall go home too. Lucy went out, visiting with her mother, an_s they were only duty calls, I did not go.
  • 1 August.—I came up here an hour ago with Lucy, and we had a most interestin_alk with my old friend and the two others who always come and join him. He i_vidently the Sir Oracle of them, and I should think must have been in hi_ime a most dictatorial person.
  • He will not admit anything, and down faces everybody. If he can't out-argu_hem he bullies them, and then takes their silence for agreement with hi_iews.
  • Lucy was looking sweetly pretty in her white lawn frock. She has got _eautiful colour since she has been here.
  • I noticed that the old men did not lose any time in coming and sitting nea_er when we sat down. She is so sweet with old people, I think they all fel_n love with her on the spot. Even my old man succumbed and did not contradic_er, but gave me double share instead. I got him on the subject of the legends , and he went off at once into a sort of sermon. I must try to remember it an_ut it down.
  • "It be all fool-talk, lock, stock, and barrel, that's what it be and now_lse. These bans an' wafts an' boh-ghosts an' bar-guests an' bogles an' al_nent them is only fit to set bairns an' dizzy women a'belderin'. They be now_ut air-blebs. They, an' all grims an' signs an' warnin's, be all invented b_arsons an' illsome berk-bodies an' railway touters to skeer an' scunne_afflin's, an' to get folks to do somethin' that they don't other incline to.
  • It makes me ireful to think o' them. Why, it's them that, not content wit_rintin' lies on paper an' preachin' them ou t of pulpits, does want to b_uttin' them on the tombstones. Look here all around you in what airt ye will.
  • All them steans, holdin' up their heads as well as they can out of thei_ride, is acant, simply tumblin' down with the weight o' the lies wrote o_hem, `Here lies the body' or `Sacred to the memory' wrote on all of them, an'
  • yet in nigh half of them there bean't no bodies at all, an' the memories o_hem bean't cared a pinch of snuff about, much less sacred. Lies all of them, nothin' but lies of one kind or another! My gog, but it'll be a quar_cowderment at the Day of Judgment when they come tumblin' up in their death- sarks, all jouped together an' trying' to drag their tombsteans with them t_rove how good they was, some of them trimmlin' an' dithering, with thei_ands that dozzened an' slippery from lyin' in the sea that they can't eve_eep their gurp o' them."
  • I could see from the old fellow's self-satisfied air and the way in which h_ooked round for the approval of his cronies that he was "showing off," so _ut in a word to keep him going.
  • "Oh, Mr. Swales, you can't be serious. Surely these tombstones are not al_rong?"
  • "Yabblins! There may be a poorish few not wrong, savin' where they make ou_he people too good, for there be folk that do think a balm-bowl be like th_ea, if only it be their own. The whole thing be only lies. Now look you here.
  • You come here a stranger, an' you see this kirkgarth."
  • I nodded, for I thought it better to assent, though I did not quite understan_is dialect. I knew it had something to do with the church.
  • He went on, "And you consate that all these steans be aboon folk that be hape_ere, snod an' snog?" I assented again. "Then that be just where the lie come_n. Why, there be scores of these laybeds that be toom as old Dun's `baccabo_n Friday night."
  • He nudged one of his companions, and they all laughed. "And, my gog! How coul_hey be otherwise? Look at that one, the aftest abaft the bier-bank, read it!"
  • I went over and read, "Edward Spencelagh, master mariner, murdered by pirate_ff the coast of Andres, April, 1854, age 30." When I came back Mr. Swale_ent on,
  • "Who brought him home, I wonder, to hap him here? Murdered off the coast o_ndres! An' you consated his body lay under! Why, I could name ye a doze_hose bones lie in the Greenland seas above," he pointed northwards, "or wher_he currants may have drifted them. There be the steans around ye. Ye can, with your young eyes, read the small print of the lies from here. Thi_raithwaite Lowery, I knew his father, lost in the Lively off Greenland in `20, or Andrew Woodhouse, drowned in the same seas in 1777, or John Paxton, drowned off Cape Farewell a year later, or old John Rawlings, whos_randfather sailed with me, drowned in the Gulf of Finland in `50. Do ye thin_hat all these men will have to make a rush to Whitby when the trumpet sounds?
  • I have me antherums aboot it! I tell ye that when they got here they'd b_ommlin' and jostlin' one another that way that it `ud be like a fight up o_he ice in the old days, when we'd be at one another from daylight to dark, an' tryin' to tie up our cuts by the aurora borealis." This was evidentl_ocal pleasantry, for the old man cackled over it, and his cronies joined i_ith gusto.
  • "But," I said, "surely you are not quite correct, for you start on th_ssumption that all the poor people, or their spirits, will have to take thei_ombstones with them on the Day of Judgment. Do you think that will be reall_ecessary?"
  • "Well, what else be they tombstones for? Answer me that, miss!"
  • "To please their relatives, I suppose."
  • "To please their relatives, you suppose!" This he said with intense scorn.
  • "How will it pleasure their relatives to know that lies is wrote over them, and that everybody in the place knows that they be lies?"
  • He pointed to a stone at our feet which had been laid down as a slab, on whic_he seat was rested, close to the edge of the cliff. "Read the lies on tha_hruff-stone," he said.
  • The letters were upside down to me from where I sat, but Lucy was mor_pposite to them, so she leant over and read, "Sacred to the memory of Georg_anon, who died, in the hope of a glorious resurrection, on Jul_9,1873,falling from the rocks at Kettleness. This tomb was erected by hi_orrowing mother to her dearly beloved son.`He was the only son of his mother, and she was a widow.' Really, Mr. Swales, I don't see anything very funny i_hat!" She spoke her comment very gravely and somewhat severely.
  • "Ye don't see aught funny! Ha-ha! But that's because ye don't gawm th_orrowin'mother was a hell-cat that hated him because he was acrewk'd, _egular lamiter he was, an' he hated her so that he committed suicide in orde_hat she mightn't get an insurance she put on his life. He blew nigh the to_f his head off with an old musket that they had for scarin' crows with.
  • `twarn't for crows then, for it brought the clegs and the dowps to him. That'_he way he fell off the rocks. And, as to hopes of a glorious resurrection, I've often heard him say masel' that he hoped he'd go to hell, for his mothe_as so pious that she'd be sure to go to heaven, an' he didn't want to addl_here she was. Now isn't that stean at any rate,"he hammered it with his stic_s he spoke, "a pack of lies? And won't it make Gabriel keckle when Geordi_omes pantin' ut the grees with the tompstean balanced on his hump, and ask_o be took as evidence!"
  • I did not know what to say, but Lucy turned the conversation as she said, rising up, "Oh, why did you tell us of this? It is my favorite seat, and _annot leave it, and now I find I must go on sitting over the grave of _uicide."
  • "That won't harm ye, my pretty, an' it may make poor Geordie gladsome to hav_o trim a lass sittin' on his lap. That won't hurt ye. Why, I've sat here of_n' on for nigh twenty years past, an' it hasn't done me no harm. Don't y_ash about them as lies under ye, or that doesn' lie there either! It'll b_ime for ye to be getting scart when ye see the tombsteans all run away with, and the place as bare as a stubble-field. There's the clock, and'I must gang.
  • My service to ye, ladies!" And off he hobbled.
  • Lucy and I sat awhile, and it was all so beautiful before us that we too_ands as we sat, and she told me all over again about Arthur and their comin_arriage. That made me just a little heart-sick, for I haven't heard fro_onathan for a whole month.
  • The same day. I came up here alone, for I am very sad. There was no letter fo_e. I hope there cannot be anything the matter with Jonathan. The clock ha_ust struck nine. I see the lights scattered all over the town, sometimes i_ows where the streets are, and sometimes singly. They run right up the Es_nd die away in the curve of the valley. To my left the view is cut off by _lack line of roof of the old house next to the abbey. The sheep and lambs ar_leating in the fields away behind me, and there is a clatter of donkeys'
  • hoofs up the paved road below. The band on the pier is playing a harsh walt_n good time, and further along the quay there is a Salvation Army meeting i_ back street. Neither of the bands hears the other, but up here I hear an_ee them both. I wonder where Jonathan is and if he is thinking of me! I wis_e were here.
  • DR. SEWARD'S DIARY
  • 5 June.—The case of Renfield grows more interesting the more I get t_nderstand the man. He has certain qualities very largely developed, selfishness, secrecy, and purpose.
  • I wish I could get at what is the object of the latter. He seems to have som_ettled scheme of his own, but what it is I do not know. His redeeming qualit_s a love of animals, though, indeed, he has such curious turns in it that _ometimes imagine he is only abnormally cruel. His pets are of odd sorts.
  • Just now his hobby is catching flies. He has at present such a quantity that _ave had myself to expostulate. To my astonishment, he did not break out int_ fury, as I expected, but took the matter in simple seriousness. He though_or a moment, and then said, "May I have three days? I shall clear them away."
  • Of course, I said that would do. I must watch him.
  • 18 June.—He has turned his mind now to spiders, and has got several very bi_ellows in a box. He keeps feeding them his flies, and the number of th_atter is becoming sensibly diminished, although he has used half his food i_ttracting more flies from outside to his room.
  • 1 July.—His spiders are now becoming as great a nuisance as his flies, an_oday I told him that he must get rid of them.
  • He looked very sad at this, so I said that he must some of them, at al_vents. He cheerfully acquiesced in this, and I gave him the same time a_efore for reduction.
  • He disgusted me much while with him, for when a horrid blowfly, bloated wit_ome carrion food, buzzed into the room, he caught it, held it exultantly fo_ few moments between his finger and thumb, and before I knew what he wa_oing to do, put it in his mouth and ate it.
  • I scolded him for it, but he argued quietly that it was very good and ver_holesome, that it was life, strong life, and gave life to him. This gave m_n idea, or the rudiment of one. I must watch how he gets rid of his spiders.
  • He has evidently some deep problem in his mind, for he keeps a little noteboo_n which he is always jotting down something. whole pages of it are fille_ith masses of figures, generally single numbers added up in batches, and the_he totals added in batches again, as though he were focussing some account, as the auditors put it.
  • 8 July.—There is a method in his madness, and the rudimentary idea in my min_s growing. It will be a whole idea soon, and then, oh, unconsciou_erebration, you will have to give the wall to your conscious brother.
  • I kept away from my friend for a few days, so that I might notice if ther_ere any change. Things remain as they were except that he has parted wit_ome of his pets and got a new one.
  • He has managed to get a sparrow, and has already partially tamed it. His mean_f taming is simple, for already the spiders have diminshed. Those that d_emain, however, are well fed, for he still brings in the flies by temptin_hem with his food.
  • 19 July—We are progressing. My friend has now a whole colony of sparrows, an_is flies and spiders are almost obliterated. When I came in he ran to me an_aid he wanted to ask me a great favour, a very, very great favour. And as h_poke, he fawned on me like a dog.
  • I asked him what it was, and he said, with a sort of rapture in his voice an_earing, "A kitten, a nice, little, sleek playful kitten, that I can pla_ith, and teach, and feed, and feed, and feed!"
  • I was not unprepared for this request, for I had noticed how his pets went o_ncreasing in size and vivacity, but I did not care that his pretty family o_ame sparrows should be wiped out in the same manner as the flies and spiders.
  • So I said I would see about it, and asked him if he would not rather have _at than a kitten.
  • His eagerness betrayed him as he answered, "Oh, yes, I would like a cat! _nly asked for a kitten lest you should refuse me a cat. No one would refus_e a kitten, would they?"
  • I shook my head, and said that at present I feared it would not be possible, but that I would see about it. His face fell, and I could see a warning o_anger in it, for there was a sudden fierce, sidelong look which mean_illing. The man is an undeveloped homicidal maniac. I shall test him with hi_resent craving and see how it will work out, then I shall know more.
  • 10 pm.—I have visited him again and found him sitting in a corner brooding.
  • When I came in he threw himself on his knees before me and implored me to le_im have a cat, that his salvation depended upon it.
  • I was firm, however, and told him that he could not have it, whereupon he wen_ithout a word, and sat down, gnawing his fingers, in the corner where I ha_ound him. I shall see him in the morning early.
  • 20 July.—Visited Renfield very early, before attendant went his rounds. Foun_im up and humming a tune. He was spreading out his sugar, which he had saved, in the window, and was manifestly beginning his fly catching again, an_eginning it cheerfully and with a good grace.
  • I looked around for his birds, and not seeing them,asked him where they were.
  • He replied, without turning round, that they had all flown away. There were _ew feathers about the room and on his pillow a drop of blood. I said nothing, but went and told the keeper to report to me if there were anything odd abou_im during the day.
  • 11 am.—The attendant has just been to see me to say that Renfield has bee_ery sick and has disgorged a whole lot of feathers. "My belief is, doctor,"
  • he said, "that he has eaten his birds, and that he just took and ate the_aw!"
  • 11 pm.—I gave Renfield a strong opiate tonight, enough to make even him sleep, and took away his pocketbook to look at it. The thought that has been buzzin_bout my brain lately is complete, and the theory proved.
  • My homicidal maniac is of a peculiar kind. I shall have to invent a ne_lassification for him, and call him a zoophagous (life-eating) maniac. Wha_e desires is to absorb as many lives as he can, and he has laid himself ou_o achieve it in a cumulative way. He gave many flies to one spider and man_piders to one bird, and then wanted a cat to eat the many birds. What woul_ave been his later steps?
  • It would almost be worth while to complete the experiment. It might be done i_here were only a sufficient cause. Men sneered at vivisection, and yet loo_t its results today! Why not advance science in its most difficult and vita_spect, the knowledge of the brain?
  • Had I even the secret of one such mind, did I hold the key to the fancy o_ven one lunatic, I might advance my own branch of science to a pitch compare_ith which Burdon-Sanderson's physiology or Ferrier's brain knowledge would b_s nothing. If only there were a sufficient cause! I must not think too muc_f this, or I may be tempted. A good cause might turn the scale with me, fo_ay not I too be of an exceptional brain, congenitally?
  • How well the man reasoned. Lunatics always do within their own scope. I wonde_t how many lives he values a man, or if at only one. He has closed th_ccount most accurately, and today begun a new record. How many of us begin _ew record with each day of our lives?
  • To me it seems only yesterday that my whole life ended with my new hope, an_hat truly I began a new record. So it shall be until the Great Recorder sum_e up and closes my ledger account with a balance to profit or loss.
  • Oh, Lucy, Lucy, I cannot be angry with you, nor can I be angry with my frien_hose happiness is yours, but I must only wait on hopeless and work. Work!
  • Work!
  • If I could have as strong a cause as my poor mad friend there, a good, unselfish cause to make me work, that would be indeed happiness.
  • MINA MURRAY'S JOURNAL
  • 26 July.—I am anxious, and it soothes me to express myself here. It is lik_hispering to one's self and listening at the same time. And there is als_omething about the shorthand symbols that makes it different from writing. _m unhappy about Lucy and about Jonathan. I had not heard from Jonathan fo_ome time, and was very concerned, but yesterday dear Mr. Hawkins, who i_lways so kind, sent me a letter from him. I had written asking him if he ha_eard, and he said the enclosed had just been received. It is only a lin_ated from Castle Dracula, and says that he is just starting for home. That i_ot like Jonathan. I do not understand it, and it makes me uneasy.
  • Then, too, Lucy , although she is so well, has lately taken to her old habi_f walking in her sleep. Her mother has spoken to me about it, and we hav_ecided that I am to lock the door of our room every night.
  • Mrs. Westenra has got an idea that sleep-walkers always go out on roofs o_ouses and along the edges of cliffs and then get suddenly wakened and fal_ver with a despairing cry that echoes all over the place.
  • Poor dear, she is naturally anxious about Lucy, and she tells me that he_usband, Lucy's father, had the same habit, that he would get up in the nigh_nd dress himself and go out, if he were not stopped.
  • Lucy is to be married in the autumn, and she is already planning out he_resses and how her house is to be arranged. I sympathise with her, for I d_he same, only Jonathan and I will start in life in a very simple way, an_hall have to try to make both ends meet.
  • Mr. Holmwood, he is the Hon. Arthur Holmwood, only son of Lord Godalming, i_oming up here very shortly, as soon as he can leave town, for his father i_ot very well, and I think dear Lucy is counting the moments till he comes.
  • She wants to take him up in the seat on the churchyard cliff and show him th_eauty of Whitby. I daresay it is the waiting which disturbs her. She will b_ll right when he arrives.
  • 27 July.—No news from Jonathan. I am getting quite uneasy about him, thoug_hy I should I do not know, but I do wish that he would write, if it were onl_ single line.
  • Lucy walks more than ever, and each night I am awakened by her moving abou_he room. Fortunately, the weather is so hot that she cannot get cold. Bu_till, the anxiety and the perpetually being awakened is beginning to tell o_e, and I am getting nervous and wakeful myself. Thank God, Lucy's healt_eeps up. Mr. Holmwood has been suddenly called to Ring to see his father, wh_as been taken seriously ill. Lucy frets at the postponement of seeing him, but it does not touch her looks. She is a trifle stouter, and her cheeks are _ovely rose-pink. She has lost the anemic look which she had. I pray it wil_ll last.
  • 3 August.—Another week gone by, and no news from Jonathan, not even to Mr.
  • Hawkins, from whom I have heard. Oh, I do hope he is not ill. He surely woul_ave written. I look at that last letter of his, but somehow it does no_atisfy me. It does not read like him, and yet it is his writing. There is n_istake of that.
  • Lucy has not walked much in her sleep the last week, but there is an od_oncentration about her which I do not understand, even in her sleep she seem_o be watching me. She tries the door, and finding it locked, goes about th_oom searching for the key.
  • 6 August.—Another three days, and no news. This suspense is getting dreadful.
  • If I only knew where to write to or where to go to, I should feel easier. Bu_o one has heard a word of Jonathan since that last letter. I must only pra_o God for patience.
  • Lucy is more excitable than ever, but is otherwise well. Last night was ver_hreatening, and the fishermen say that we are in for a storm. I must try t_atch it and learn the weather signs.
  • Today is a gray day, and the sun as I write is hidden in thick clouds, hig_ver Kettleness. Everything is gray except the green grass, which seems lik_merald amongst it, gray earthy rock, gray clouds, tinged with the sunburst a_he far edge, hang over the gray sea, into which the sandpoints stretch lik_ray figures. The sea is tumbling in over the shallows and the sandy flat_ith a roar, muffled in the sea-mists drifting inland. The horizon is lost i_ gray mist. All vastness, the clouds are piled up like giant rocks, and ther_s a `brool' over the sea that sounds like some passage of doom. Dark figure_re on the beach here and there, sometimes half shrouded in the mist, and seem `men like trees walking'. The fishing boats are racing for home, and rise an_ip in the ground swell as they sweep into the harbour, bending to th_cuppers. Here comes old Mr. Swales. He is making straight for me, and I ca_ee, by the way he lifts his hat, that he wants to talk.
  • I have been quite touched by the change in the poor old man. When he sat dow_eside me, he said in a very gentle way, "I want to say something to you, miss."
  • I could see he was not at ease, so I took his poor old wrinkled hand in min_nd asked him to speak fully.
  • So he said, leaving his hand in mine, "I'm afraid, my deary, that I must hav_hocked you by all the wicked things I've been sayin' about the dead, and suc_ike, for weeks past, but I didn't mean them, and I want ye to remember tha_hen I'm gone. We aud folks that be daffled, and with one foot abaft the krok- hooal, don't altogether like to think of it, and we don't want to feel scar_f it, and that's why I've took to makin' light of it, so that I'd cheer up m_wn heart a bit. But, Lord love ye, miss, I ain't afraid of dyin', not a bit, only I don't want to die if I can help it. My time must be nigh at hand now, for I be aud, and a hundred years is too much for any man to expect. And I'_o nigh it that the Aud Man is already whettin' his scythe. Ye see, I can'_et out o' the habit of caffin' about it all at once. The chafts will wag a_hey be used to. Some day soon the Angel of Death will sound his trumpet fo_e. But don't ye dooal an' greet, my deary!"—for he saw that I was crying— "i_e should come this very night I'd not refuse to answer his call. For life be, after all, only a waitin' for somethin' else than what we're doin', and deat_e all that we can rightly depend on. But I'm content, for it's comin' to me, my deary, and comin' quick. It may be comin' while we be lookin' an_onderin'. Maybe it's in that wind out over the sea that's bringin' with i_oss and wreck, and sore distress, and sad hearts. Look! Look!" he crie_uddenly. "There's something in that wind and in the hoast beyont that sounds, and looks, and tastes, and smells like death. It's in the air. I feel i_omin'. Lord, make me answer cheerful, when my call comes!" He held up hi_rms devoutly, and raised his hat. His mouth moved as though he were praying.
  • After a few minutes' silence, he got up, shook hands with me, and blessed me, and said good-bye, and hobbled off. It all touched me, and upset me very much.
  • I was glad when the coastguard came along, with his spyglass under his arm. H_topped to talk with me, as he always does, but all the time kept looking at _trange ship.
  • "I can't make her out," he said. "She's a Russian, by the look of her. Bu_he's knocking about in the queerest way. She doesn't know her mind a bit. Sh_eems to see the storm coming, but can't decide whether to run up north in th_pen, or to put in here. Look there again! She is steered mighty strangely, for she doesn't mind the hand on the wheel, changes about with every puff o_ind. We'll hear more of her before this time tomorrow."