“Now,” I thought to myself, “the Second will see the thing.  And perhaps Mr. Blooming ’prentice will be able to give the star its proper name.”

Even as the thought came into my head, the light faded and vanished; and I caught the Second Mate’s voice.

“Whereaway?” he was singing out.

“It’s gone again, Sir,” I answered.

A minute later, I heard him coming along the deck.

He reached the foot of the starboard ladder.

“Where are you, Jessop?” he inquired.

“Here, Sir,” I said, and went to the top of the weather ladder.

He came up slowly on to the fo’cas’le head.

“What’s this you’ve been singing out about a light?” he asked.  “Just point out exactly where it was you last saw it.”

This I did, and he went over to the port rail, and stared away into the night; but without seeing anything.

“It’s gone, Sir,” I ventured to remind him.  “Though I’ve seen it twice now—­once, about a couple of points on the bow, and this last time, broad away on the bow; but it disappeared both times, almost at once.”

“I don’t understand it at all, Jessop,” he said, in a puzzled voice.  “Are you sure it was a ship’s light?”

“Yes, Sir.  A green light.  It was quite close.”

“I don’t understand,” he said again.  “Run aft and ask the ’prentice to pass you down my night glasses.  Be as smart as you can.”

“i, i, Sir,” I replied, and ran aft.

In less than a minute, I was back with his binoculars; and, with them, he stared for some time at the sea to leeward.

All at once he dropped them to his side, and faced round on me with a sudden question: 

“Where’s she gone to?  If she’s shifted her bearing as quickly as all that, she must be precious close.  We should be able to see her spars and sails, or her cabin light, or her binnacle light, or something!”

“It’s queer, Sir,” I assented.

“Damned queer,” he said.  “So damned queer that I’m inclined to think you’ve made a mistake.”

“No, Sir.  I’m certain it was a light.”

“Where’s the ship then?” he asked.

“I can’t say, Sir.  That’s just what’s been puzzling me.”

The Second said nothing in reply; but took a couple of quick turns across the fo’cas’le head—­stopping at the port rail, and taking another look to leeward through his night glasses.  Perhaps a minute he stood there.  Then, without a word, he went down the lee ladder, and away aft along the main deck to the poop.

“He’s jolly well puzzled,” I thought to myself.  “Or else he thinks I’ve been imagining things.”  Either way, I guessed he’d think that.

In a little, I began to wonder whether, after all, he had any idea of what might be the truth.  One minute, I would feel certain he had; and the next, I was just as sure that he guessed nothing.  I got one of my fits of asking myself whether it would not have been better to have told him everything.  It seemed to me that he must have seen sufficient to make him inclined to listen to me.  And yet, I could not by any means be certain.  I might only have been making an ass of myself, in his eyes.  Or set him thinking I was dotty.