The story hunter

Wherever I happen to be, whether in town or at a seaport, the sight of a genuine tar has a fascination for me, and I feel bound to speak to the man, if he is at all a decent person and has a civil and clean tongue. I find that the average sailor is a very reticent fellow on first acquaintance, probably taking every landsman for a shark; and as that is his belief, he is very wary of strangers who may wish to engage him in conversation. No doubt, in ports all over the world, Jack meets with plenty of unprincipled people, ready to take advantage of him in any way that presents itself, and, knowing this, he is consequently on his guard, and in time looks with doubt upon all strangers, as possible enemies, sailing under false colours. Thus is Jack taciturn on first acquaintanceship, both at home or abroad, but when once he finds that he has a friend to deal with, his tongue is loosened and the bulkhead of cautious reserve soon battered down, and he will then fire off his jokes and yarns in a most amicable and boisterous manner.

Old John Beamish, whom I met in the port of Aberdeen, was one of these peculiarly reserved men, carrying his character in his face, as a stout, true, hard-headed North Briton; and it was only after several friendly “cracks” that I could at all thaw the apparently austere Captain Beamish.

The gallant skipper no doubt put me down as a bad lot, seeing that I lived in a gipsy-van, and when I informed him that I only wandered about for my own pleasure, tapped his short fat forefinger on his nose, which I took to be a sign that my statement was somewhat open to doubt. He could not conceive that any sane person, with a fair income, should live on wheels, with no permanent address, when the said income would provide “a nice snug little house, with a tidy bit of garden, a summer-house, and a tall flagstaff, for its possessor.”

However, after I had persuaded the captain to pay me several visits, he came to the conclusion that I might by some chance be speaking the truth after all, and we had several pleasant evenings, which were passed in chatting, cards, and whisky. Captain John loved cribbage very much, but whisky more; and, on one or two occasions, I had to steady him as he took his departure from my van, the step-ladder, or companion as he called it, being very steep.

When I broached the subject of hypnotism the good man was unfeignedly alarmed, and I fully believe placed my cards, whisky, and hospitality down to a bad cause. I think he expected I had been luring him on to rob him, or take some other advantage of him, and for several days I could not prevail upon him to spend another evening with me, until I informed him that I was to depart in a day or two. Then I invited him to pay me a farewell visit. My invitation was accepted, and he came, but I very soon noticed one thing, and that was, that he had left his watch at home.

He played and drank as usual, and as the evening wore on he mellowed under the influence of “mountain dew.” With each successive draught his uneasiness gradually disappeared, until he became quite communicative; and then—well then, feeling for all the world like a murderer—I added him to the number of my victims.

DOCTOR ANGUS SINCLAIR.

I have—as seaman, mate, and skipper—in forty years seen some curious sights, you may be sure, although all my voyages have been to the north, ay, and pretty far north too, some of them; for we whalers have to go wherever the fish are to be found, and if we cannot find them near home, why, we have just got to go north and search till we do fall in with them.

You want to know the most wonderful thing I ever came across in my long life of hardship and adventure in the Arctic Seas? Well, there is nothing that I know of to equal the finding of Doctor Angus Sinclair in 1862. But as you want it spun properly I’ll give you the yarn from beginning to end, and then you’ll see for yourself what a curious adventure it was.

In 1862 I was mate of the White Swan whaler, sailing from the port of Dundee, and as we had made a very poor fishing during the previous season in the Greenland Sea, our skipper made up his mind to try fresh ground, and to steer north-eastward to the Spitzbergen Islands, as he knew of some likely ground to the eastward of those islands.

The most eastern of the Spitzbergen Isles is one called Wyches, or King Charles’s Island, and our skipper made straight for this island, intending to build a hut there, and make it a kind of winter habitation, should we be obliged to go into winter quarters before getting a full cargo. Our owner had instructed the skipper to take what oil he could get of the right sort, but, if he could not obtain a full cargo, to wait till he could fill up with something else—by this meaning seal-pelts, seal-oil, bear’s robes, walrus’ tusks or skin, or anything else worth the freight.

Having all our outfit aboard we left Dundee, touched at Tromso, and in a fortnight arrived safely at Wyches Island, where we stayed about a week to build a large and comfortable hut, with timber brought with us from Dundee. Holes were dug into the everlastingly frozen ground, and posts erected, upon the outsides of which inch boards were nailed, and afterwards upon the inside also. This formed a double skin, leaving a space of some six inches between, which was filled with sawdust tightly rammed down. The roof was made in the same way, and when it was finished the whole of the interior was lined with thick felt.

There were four double-glazed windows facing the cardinal points, and only one door facing south-west. This door was well draped in thick blanketing to keep out the cold blasts of air. Bunks were ranged round the walls, and a large stove for cooking and heating purposes stood in the centre of the floor. Round the stove, forming three sides of a square, stood deal tables, for dining and other purposes. Such was our “Swan’s Nest,” as we christened it, and we afterwards found it very cosy.

Between Spitzbergen and Franz Joseph Land we cruised during the summer and autumn with fair success, but when the time came that we should for safety be sailing southward and homeward, we found that our cargo was not nearly a full one. Seeing this, the skipper had a grand “palaver” on deck, in which he did nearly all the talking, and informed the crew that he had decided to winter in White Swan Inlet; and finding that one or two of the crew were for going home and returning in the early spring, he gave them leave to do so, but also pointed out that if they were mammy sick, and wished to go home, they would have to walk there!

Our crew numbered forty hands all told, and a fine, jolly lot of fellows they were, living very harmoniously together, splitting up naturally into parties for fishing and shooting expeditions, when the weather would allow of it. Some of these excursions were for the benefit of our owner, as the skipper and I each headed parties to hunt bears, and to knock over a few seals now and again. At other times the parties were for the purpose of replenishing the larder, as we learnt to snare white foxes, geese, and other things of a furry or feathered nature; whatever we obtained went into the huge cauldron which always stood on the stove, à la the French pot au feu. By the way, our stove was as carefully watched as any sacred lamp in a continental cathedral, for it was never allowed to show even a symptom of going out, either by night or day.

Sometimes we would organize little exploring parties on our own account (having first obtained the skipper’s sanction), and wandered away for miles among the hills of the frozen island, thus leaving more space for those who remained at home to play their indoor games. Could any of our friends have looked into the “Swan’s Nest,” they might easily have mistaken it for a boys’ school, or even a play-ground. Let me just give you an idea of what the inmates did to pass their time away, from notes of the scene jotted in my pocket-book on one occasion.

Two men were cooking for the general mess. The armourer was cleaning or repairing guns, knives, etc., for some projected expedition, while round the fire sat a noisy group telling yarns and smoking. Near them sat a party of four playing some game of cards; a desperate game apparently, for they looked very solemn and absorbed. The boys were enjoying a game of leap-frog at one end of the room, while several of the bunks were occupied by men, some of whom were asleep, a couple on the sick list, and others reading. There was a man, the cobbler of the crew, mending boots, while at his side sat Snip, sewing away at the seat of a pair of duffel trousers, what he calls armour-plating them; and along the north side was a skittle alley, at which a knot of tars are very much enjoying themselves, if we might judge by the shouts of merriment and hearty smacks upon the back with which they salute each other.

Hands behind his back by the stove, with his legs thrust apart like a pair of compasses, stood the skipper, sipping a glass of something steaming hot, while your humble servant had just finished posting up the ship’s journal; for the skipper was a poor hand with the pen, his fingers being all thumbs, and his thumbs like stun’sail booms.

Well, now that I have shown you how we amused ourselves, I will proceed with my yarn.

Ever since I was quite a nipper I have had a fondness for exploring and roaming about whenever I could get off duty, and this propensity did not desert me amid the snow and ice of the Arctic regions, as you shall hear.

I begged the skipper to allow me to make a tour of the island on which we were living; a tour having for its object the making of an accurate map; one, at any rate, more accurate than that at the time laid down in the charts.

He met me with a flat and decided “No!”

“Why, man, are you mad? The island we are on is as large as the principality of Wales, and to compass it you would have to travel at least four hundred miles, which would probably mean an absence of nine or ten weeks! No, my man, this is not quite a lunatic asylum; not yet, at all events.”

It was no use pleading, but his refusal set my back up, as the men twitted me (not to my face, but indirectly), with wanting to be a circumnavigator of the world on my own account.

Two of them would waddle round the tables, and, when they met, pretend they had not seen each other for years, and shake hands and embrace in a most enthusiastic manner, to the delight of the crew and my own chagrin.

One day, the weather being clear, the skipper brought out his big telescope, and was very busy with it, taking long surveys at a distant island lying due south of the Inlet. He requested me to get the charts of the Spitzbergen group down, which I did.

“Now look here,” said he, addressing me; “that island to the south’ard is laid down in the chart as a mere rock, and only indicated by a big dot and the words ‘rocks of some extent.’ Now, by my glass, it looks a tidy big island, at least six or eight miles from east to west, and goodness knows how long from north to south. I can see parts of it which must rise to a height of several hundred feet, and probably the whole island would take some three or four days to travel round on the rough ice. Now what do you say to take two or three hands and go and explore it?”

“What do I say?—why jump at it with pleasure, of course; but give me a couple of days to get ready, and allow me to pick my crew.”

This was assented to, and in the three days allotted I rigged up one of the small boats on runners, loaded it with felt sleeping-bags, a tent, small stove, guns, provisions, a lamp, and many other things that might be required.

On the third day I started off with four men, who were as eager for the expedition as myself, being only too glad to undertake anything for a change from the monotonous hut life. We were granted six days to be away; if we had not returned by the end of that time a search party would be sent out to seek us. We were instructed to plant a rod with a piece of red bunting at our various halting-places, so that if necessary our steps might easily be followed.

As we started off the whole ship’s company came out to bid us farewell, and it made our hearts bound with joy and pride, when we heard their voices, with loud “hurrahs,” make the surrounding icy peaks of these Arctic solitudes echo again.

We had ten miles to scramble over the excessively rough ice which lay between our winter quarters and the island. Six or eight of our mates came half-way with us, to give us a hand in dragging our sledge-boat.

It was terrible hard work, and the first five miles took us six hours to accomplish, as the ice was in some places piled in hummocks twenty and even thirty feet high; round these we had to make a détour, so that our course was very meandering and uncertain.

We made a halt and refreshed, each of us having a cup of hot coffee to drink with the meal we had brought with us. We could see the “Swan’s Nest” built on the side of a hill facing south-west, and, not a couple of hundred yards away, was our vessel, the White Swan, frozen solidly into the ice. Her topmasts and heavy gear had been sent down and stowed on deck, which from stem to stern was covered in with a span roof of timber; so that she looked something like a long black shed, with three tall chimneys thrust through the roof.

After half-an-hour’s halt our comrades left us and returned to the “Swan’s Nest,” hoping to see us again in six days at furthest.

After a long and rough scramble we at length reached the island, and selecting a nook between two rocky cliffs, erected our tent and prepared everything to pass the night there. The rocks on three sides kept the wind off famously, what little there was, and to give some protection from any bears who might be prowling about, we drew the sledge across the narrow entrance to our nook; the stove we rigged up at the mouth of the tent. We cooked a kind of stew, had a pannikin of hot coffee each, and then, drawing sleeping-bags over our legs up to our waists, sat and played cards by lantern light till we were ready for slumber, when we drew the bags completely over our heads and slept soundly till it was time to be up and stirring.

So far everything had been quiet and comfortable, but while we were consuming our breakfast, one of the men named Adams went to the boat for some more ship’s bread, and was in the act of taking it from the bag in which it was kept when a huge white bear put his nose over the side of the boat and opened its mouth, just as you see them in menageries when a biscuit is about to be tossed to them. He appeared to say,

“Don’t forget me, mate.”

Adams, far from being frightened, stooped and picked up an axe from the floor of the boat, and swinging it aloft brought it down so as to strike the animal fairly on the head, and had he succeeded he would probably have killed it instantaneously, as he was a powerful man.

The bear was too quick for him, however, and dodged the intended blow, so that the axe, instead of being buried in the furry one’s skull, found a billet in the side of the boat, where it was wedged so tightly by the force of the blow, that Adams could not withdraw it. He turned round to jump out and run to us, but the bear, rising on its hind legs, caught him a blow in the ribs which sent him with a crash into the bottom of the boat.

The bear still stood on its hind legs, roaring and looking very wicked—offering a capital mark for our rifles, three of which were aimed at the monster at the same time. Two almost simultaneous reports rang out, and the monster fell: my piece failed to go off—a bad cap I found afterwards, for breechloaders were not then in general use. We made a rush upon our fallen foe to give him the coup de grâce, but the terrible fellow was quite dead, from a shot through the eye, which had doubtless penetrated the brain. Two of his claws had been carried away by the other bullet, which came very near missing altogether.

Adams lay in the bottom of the boat perfectly conscious, and looking at us, but giving occasional groans.

“Are you hurt?” we asked.

“Hurt, mates? I’m afraid to move, for fear my whole starboard side is stove in. Give us a hand, one of you; steady—gently now.”

He rose with difficulty, and we carried him to the tent and examined his side. No bones were broken, but from the armpit to the waist was a terrible bruise upon which we rubbed a good coat of the bear’s fat, on the principle that like cures like.

Fearing that he would be an incumbrance to us, he determined to start back to the “Swan’s Nest” alone, as he could not pull on the sledge-ropes; so shouldering his rifle the plucky fellow returned across the icy wilderness, and reached our quarters safely (as we afterwards found), tired and sore in every limb, after a tramp and clamber of twelve hours.

We skinned the bear, rolling up the robe and placing it in the boat, and then commenced our tour of the island.

We had made the island on the north shore, and gradually worked round along the east coast, till we arrived at the south, where we discovered a nearly land-locked harbour of considerable extent, which we entered, finding it covered with quite smooth ice, smooth enough, in fact, for skating, which is a somewhat rare occurrence in these regions. The Ancient Mariner had “water, water everywhere, but not a drop to drink,” while in the far north we have ice and snow everywhere, but not a place to skate. The harbour was surrounded by steep cliffs of great height and snow-clad, but still a cosy-looking place for winter quarters for a whaler.

As we looked around these wall-like cliffs, we were startled by the sight of what appeared to be a solid-looking hut, built in a hollow, over which the great brown cliffs lowered as if they would fall and crush it. A steep, pathless, snowy slope led up to this strange dwelling, which no sooner caught sight of than, like a lot of boys just let out of school, we, with one accord, dropped our sledge-tugs and bounded up the craggy acclivity to see what it contained.

Sure enough it was a hut, and of fair size too, built with its rear supported by the rocky cliffs, which had been hollowed out to receive it. Two windows, heavily barred, looked out over the frozen sea below, and between them was the heavy door, from a hole in which depended a thin metal chain. I seized the chain and gave it a pull, which raised a bar of wood within, causing the door to swing open of its own accord.

We looked within, but the interior was so dark that little was visible, even with the door open; but we could see a piece of blanket or battered sail stretched from side to side of the cabin, so as to divide it into two apartments, and we could also discern a rough, ancient-looking chair, and several large articles. I stepped in and drew the curtain aside; I say drew it aside, but it really fell apart in my hand as I endeavoured to do so. Anyhow, enough of it was removed for me to see a most gruesome sight; for there, in the dim light, I could dimly discern the figure of a dead man, sitting by a table or bench, and, as may be supposed, the sight made me recoil against my comrades, whom I so imbued with my fright, that we all rushed out of the hut together.

Telling them what I had seen, I sent one of them to the boat for the lantern, so that we could obtain a light, and enter again into the inner apartment of the hut.

The lantern being brought, we crowded in quietly together, I being foremost with the light, and there, sure enough, sat a man at the table in such an attitude that, had we not known he must be dead, we should have thought he was simply asleep. He looked about sixty years of age, and possessed very fine intellectual features; but on closer examination we were surprised to find that his beard, instead of being an ordinary one of, say, a few inches long, or even an extraordinary one of a growth reaching to the waist, was of such an abnormal length that it not only reached the floor, but lay there in a huge tangled mass; nor was his hair a whit behind, as it fell in tresses over the back of the chair, and was actually frozen to the floor all around him. His eyebrows, too, hung down over his eyelids touching his cheeks, and as for his finger-nails!—well, they were as long and pointed as “the quills upon the back of the fretful porcupine.” His toe-nails had pierced his shoes, and extended beyond his toes a foot or more.

We gazed in silence, being struck speechless with amazement at the marvellous sight, and for some time our eyes were so riveted on the strange object before us, that we forgot each other’s presence.

My voice first broke the silence, but as I spoke my words seemed a kind of sacrilege to the presence and awful silence and solemnity of the dead man before us.

“Well, mates, what do you make of this?” I asked.

No one knew what to make of it, but old Johnson, our carpenter, asked—

“What’s that thing on the table in front of him?”

I held the lantern closer, to what appeared to be a curiously-shaped box; it was tall, and narrow, and of an octagonal form.

Drawing it towards me I raised the lid, for it was not locked, and discovered another small case within it. This I also opened, and within I found a roll of parchment, on which was clearly written in a bold black lettering, the following words—

When I finished reading the strange document, we looked at each other, then at the doctor, and then at each other again, not quite knowing what to do; but I presently sufficiently recovered from my surprise to hold the lantern close to the old fellow’s face, when we were startled to find that the colour still remained in his cheeks, and that the body, instead of being frozen hard, was quite soft and fleshlike.

We lifted the old man from his chair, and tried to lay him out on the floor, but his joints were so set fast that we could not straighten them, so replaced him in his seat.

“Hold on, mates, let us see what the bottles are like,” I said, for I could see the necks of three projecting from the box.

“Ah! here’s the blue one, and on it a label. Let us see what it says. ‘Liquor to restore Animation. Make an incision in the left arm and pour in about six or eight drops.’ That’s the one we want, mates, but let us see what the others contain. Here is a red bottle, and the label says, ‘Aid to Restoration. Infuse a teaspoonful in a gill of warm water, and give the patient to drink.’”

Old Matt Johnson set about finding some bits of driftwood to make a fire, for there was a stove in the cabin; while another ran to the boat to procure some water and a saucepan.

A fire was soon started, and the water made hot: then came the momentous question—

“Who will be surgeon?”

We doubted very much that the specifics in the bottles would have any effect upon the old fellow, who could scarcely be expected to awaken to life again after a sleep of ninety years. The document intimated that one hundred years was the time the doctor wished to slumber, but we thought ninety years quite long enough for a first trial; it would be a record for the world, and beat the Seven Sleepers of Ephesus and Rip Van Winkle hollow.

Before commencing to operate on our patient, we examined the other bottle, which was labelled “Sleeping Draught. A. S., 1773. Dose, ten drops with sugar.” This we replaced in the box, none of us wishing just then to try its effects.

Johnson at last agreed to make the incision, or as he called it, “the slot,” and taking out his jack-knife he whetted it on a piece of stone, giving it a few rubs on his boot to take off the roughness, and then proceeded to rip up the doctor’s coat-sleeve. It was one of those tight-fitting lappeted coats, in vogue during the second half of the last century, and quite in keeping with the date on the parchment—1773.

By the way, on scrutinizing the document once more, we discovered these words written on the back—

“Now, Chipps,” said I to old Johnson, “are you ready?”

“Aye, aye, sir,” said he, flourishing his knife, “ready and eager for the fray. Where shall I stick him, sir?”

“Be careful, now,” I replied, “and make a little hole just there,” and I pointed to a vein on the left forearm.

Johnson jabbed his knife in as if he were about to kill a pig: it made a wound an inch long and an inch deep, but, strangely enough, no blood flowed. With the aid of a piece off the stem of a tobacco pipe, I injected a few drops of the liquid from the blue bottle, and with open mouths and straining eyes we stood by to watch the result.

Several minutes went by without any apparent effect being noticeable on the old doctor. We felt his pulse, or rather his wrist, for he was as pulseless as the figurehead of a ship, and then tried his heart. We endeavoured to open his mouth to pour in a few drops of the liquor from the red bottle (which we had mixed with warm water), but his teeth were so tightly clenched that we could not give him the “Aid to Restoration.”

As we gazed earnestly upon our patient we fancied we saw a movement of his shaggy eyebrows, but put it down to the wind which found its way into the cabin through the open door.

We watched again, and this time, to our great surprise, we saw a twitching at the corners of the mouth, sufficient to cause a movement of the heavy moustache.

I poured in three drops more from the blue bottle, and in a few minutes saw the head of our patient slowly lift and fall back again on his chest.

We tried his mouth again, and this time succeeded in opening his jaws sufficiently wide to force a few drops of the warm liquid into his throat.

Just then two of the men called out simultaneously that the wound in his arm was bleeding. Sure enough such was the case, so, whipping out my handkerchief, I bound up the gaping gash which our friend the carpenter had made.

Slowly the old doctor regained his suspended animation and moved on his chair, and when I raised his eyebrows, which hung down over his eyes like the hair on the forehead of a Skye terrier, I found that his eyes were partially open.

Quietly taking my knife from my pocket I gently cut off the long locks of hair, so that the old man could see about him if he really did come to, after his ninety years’ sleep.

He made me start as I shore off his second eyebrow, for he gave a sudden shudder which caused him to tremble from top to toe.

Presently his eyes unclosed a little, and then a little more, till they gradually opened to their widest extent; but no animation or speculation was in them—they were the staring optics of a doll or a corpse.

His hands next began to tremble, and we could see the life creeping into his cramped limbs; and then his lips gave signs of movement. We took the opportunity to give him the remainder of the liquid in the red bottle mixed with water, and the effect was wonderful, for in about half-a-minute the tall figure of Doctor Sinclair half rose, and like a man suffering from delirium tremens, uttered the fierce exclamation of “You rascal!” and fell back on the seat again.

We scuttled out of the cabin like a lot of frightened children, jostling and falling over each other in our eagerness to escape from the presence of the awful-looking being we had brought to life and action.

After running some distance down the pathway or slope, we halted and looked back, as if we expected the Ancient One to follow us, but as he did not make his appearance we gradually and stealthily returned, and emboldened by neither seeing nor hearing anything of the being within, took courage to push the door of the cabin open.

We even went further and looked in, and there we saw the gaunt figure of Doctor Sinclair with palzied hands trying to erect itself by the friendly support of the massive oak table. His legs were so cramped, and, as it were, rusty by his long trance, that he could not straighten them properly, and so weak as to be nearly useless to support his frame. He was a terrible-looking figure as he peered over the table at us, with his grey beard and hair of unheard-of growth flowing down before and behind him in unkempt profusion.

He moaned and mumbled; and then, with a great effort, tried to reach us by concentrating his feeble energies and making a rush at us, but his feet became entangled in his beard, his legs tottered, and down he came, crash upon the hard floor, to all appearances dead.

Then our scattered senses returned to us, and being ashamed of ourselves and our cowardice, we rushed to pick him up, and once more to seat him upon his chair. A little brandy was administered, and presently we had the satisfaction of seeing him regain consciousness.

The fire was replenished, and the doctor laid tenderly in his berth and snugly covered up. We warmed some tinned soup, which refreshed him marvellously; so much so that he found his voice, and quietly asked, to our surprise—

“What year is it?”

“Eighteen hundred and sixty-two,” we replied.

“What king is reigning in England,” he asked.

“No king,” was my reply, “but a queen—Victoria.”

These answers seemed to satisfy him, for he smiled, and smiling fell into a sound sleep.

“Well, here’s a rummy go,” quoth Chips.

To which we all replied that it was indeed a strange adventure, and upon looking towards the old wooden cot one could hardly believe that the tremendous mass of white seaweed-looking substance trailing from the blanket to the floor, where it lay coiled like a heap of oakum, was ever the growth of a human head; there it was, however, proof positive before our astonished eyes.

Well, I must not spin my yarn out too long, or I may get it like the old man’s hair—into a tangle.

We stayed at the hut two days, during which the old doctor appeared to gather strength hourly; so much so that, with assistance, he could walk several yards, and nearly straighten his legs and back.

We made him a comfortable couch in the sledge-boat, covering him with the bear’s skin and a blanket, and all being in readiness we started back northward to Swan Inlet, having abandoned all idea of completing our survey of South Island, at least for the present.

We hoisted a large piece of red bunting at the prow of our sledge, and when we had arrived within about four miles of our destination, we could, with my binocular, discern little black figures leaving the “Nest” and coming over the ice to assist us back.

We halted between two ice hummocks, got out our stoves, and prepared a savoury meal of bear steaks and tinned soup, both of which, in such intense cold, were exceedingly welcome.

By the time our repast was completed and we had again got under weigh, the foremost of our comrades were nearly within hail. We soon rejoined them, and were very glad of their assistance to help us to tug our increased load over the rough hummocky ice.

We said not a word of our newly-found hairy man, for fear they might want to see him, and thus cause him annoyance. We wished to drag the sledge close to the shore, so that we could carry him right into the cosy “Swan’s Nest” at once, and put him to bed.

As we proceeded over the frozen ice and neared home, other men kept coming out to meet us, till all but about half-a-dozen of the whole forty were tailing on to the ropes, and taking the sledge along at a smart trot.

They could tell that there was some mystery attached to the carefully-covered object in the stern, and it was useless for us to try and put them off by saying it was only a heap of bear robes, for now and again the object moved. They would have uncovered it to see what was there, but I sternly forbade them to do so. Guesses of all kinds were made as to what the mysterious heap consisted of, but although many tried to unravel the secret not one succeeded. Some guessed young bears, another a nest of foxes—others said seals, and one averred it could be nothing but a young walrus, from its size and shape, but none hit upon anything near the truth.

The inlet was reached at last, the sledge travelling over the smooth ice of the haven at a great pace, but not before our gallant skipper was ready on the beach to welcome me and my men back.

We shook hands, and I then told the men to stand back, as I had something I wished to tell the captain. They stood away a few yards, in a circle, so as to completely surround us and the sledge, as if they were afraid it contained something that might escape. Hurriedly I told the captain the principal points of our adventure. He was struck all of a heap, as our American cousins say, and was at first disinclined to credit my story of apparently superhuman return to life.

However, he quietly lifted the blanket, and looking at the uncanny creature beneath, their eyes met. The captain started as if he had seen a savage lion, but quickly regaining his equanimity, gave orders for four hands to bring down a “barrow,” as the implement (which looks like a bier) is called. Twenty hands started for the barrow, and in five minutes the doctor was lying on it, while Chips and I walked behind with his surplus beard and hair coiled in our hands, to prevent it from trailing on the ground and throwing the bearers down.

The doctor was put to bed, well fed for two or three days, at the end of which time he could stand, and even walk a short distance alone; and within three weeks was able to form one of the members of our shooting-parties, and although fifty-eight years of age, was as strong and hearty a man as any of us.

Spring at last came, and by July we had a full cargo; consequently, on the last of that month, we steered south-west, homeward bound for bonny Scotland and the relatives we had been parted from so long.

The doctor, of whom we had grown fond, was a very cheery companion, and looked a strange figure as he walked about the deck, with his carefully-combed and brushed hair and beard coiled neatly round his waist, and usually fastened off with a bit of scarlet bunting.

The wildness of his hilarity seemed at times to point to an unhinged mind, and as the good ship White Swan neared her destination, he became so excited that pronounced symptoms of madness appeared. These symptoms increased so rapidly, that when within about five hundred miles of Aberdeen, the poor doctor had to be locked in the captain’s cabin. He refused all food, and when it was placed inside the door instantly flung it into the sea from the stern windows.

“Only one more night and part of a day,” said the skipper, “and we shall be in Aberdeen, if this breeze holds, when we will immediately have a doctor on board to see to our poor friend and companion, Sinclair.”

But it was not to be so; for next morning, when the captain went to the cabin to ask the doctor how he fared, as was his custom several times during the day, although he only got abuse for his pains, and even threats of violence, he received no answer.

He knocked and knocked again without obtaining a reply, and mounting the companion peered into the cabin through the skylight; but not a trace of Doctor Sinclair was to be seen.

Finally the cabin door was burst open, and to the regret of all it was found that the doctor had disappeared. There was no mystery about it, for it was a clear case of self-destruction while of unsound mind: he had leaped out of one of the stern windows and drowned himself.

On reaching port our yarn was soon spread abroad, but of course laughed at by every one, as we had no proof that Doctor Angus Sinclair had ever existed, except in our imagination. True, we had the three bottles and the parchment, and these were in due time sent to the College of Physicians in London, where they were analyzed and commented upon in the medical journals.

What little remained of the “Suspender of Animation” was given to rabbits and dogs, and it really had such a soporific power that they could not be awakened, and, as long as they were kept in an atmosphere below 25°, they remained without signs of decay, even for years after.

Unfortunately, we had used, in restoring the old doctor to animation, all the contents of the blue bottle—three drops excepted. The contents of the red bottle proved, on analysis, to be a concentrated quintessence of brandy, which accounts for the doctor requiring it to be mixed with hot water before being administered.

His idea was that animation might often be usefully suspended in the case of persons out of work, on a voyage, or in embarrassed circumstances; that many, who wished to skip over, as it were, a few years of life,—either for the purpose of evading creditors, or escaping the nagging tongue of a contentious wife—would welcome his discovery and hail it, indeed, as the greatest of all possible boons.

Certain it is that had the doctor lived to patent his idea, he would have completely revolutionized the social world. If our skipper had only clapped on the “darbies” when he put the doctor in his cabin, we might now be living in strangely-altered times.

Just pause and deliberate on what wonders might have happened, but for the untimely madness and death of Doctor Angus Sinclair.

You, gentle reader, will probably come to the conclusion that my yarn is like Heathen mythology—very fair reading, but without much to recommend it in the way of truth.

If, however, you should require further proof of the authenticity of my story, you have only to fit out a suitable yacht, sail for Spitzbergen, hunt about for South Island, and having found it, you will probably also find the hut just as I have described it, perched half-way up the cliffs, in a bay (on the south of the island, mind you); and if you enter the said hut and search on the shelf over the wooden berth, you will find all that remains of Doctor Angus Sinclair; a relic that we in our hurry left behind; a relic that will prove my yarn to be strictly true, for the memento consists of the grand old doctor’s wonderful eyebrows.

Strange to say, amid the scores of stories which I heard in all parts of England, but few of them were connected with ghosts, visions, or apparitions, and from this paucity of tales of the supernatural, I have come to the conclusion that the majority of such stories are somewhat mythical and usually mere hearsay, not even second-hand versions of something that has really happened, but stories told by the fireside in the first place, and afterwards handed from mouth to mouth with numerous additions and alterations to suit places and individuals, until at length they become so changed and distorted that their inventors would not recognize the offspring of their own imagination, should they at any subsequent period listen to their recital.

Usually, after a story had been told, if I put the question, “Did you see this?” the answer would be, “Oh, no; John Williams told me about it, and I believe he heard it from Tom Smith.” A search for Tom Smith would only result in the fact that he had heard it from Harry Jones, etc., so that, strive as one might, the actual participator in the gruesome adventure one wished to fathom could never be discovered.

One very cold December day I happened to be passing through North Somersetshire, and whilst in the vicinity of Minehead, made the acquaintance of a farmer who was also a blacksmith. My stove had broken down, and one or two odd jobs of ironwork required to be done, so I procured the services of my new acquaintance, and when the various little repairs had been finished, invited him to share my evening meal, and join me in a pipe and hand at cards.

He was nothing loath, and stayed. Of course my usual ghoulish thirst for a story possessed me, and I endeavoured to obtain one from my guest, but he affirmed that he could no more tell a story than I could put him to sleep. Nothing memorable, he averred, had ever occurred during his life, so how could he tell of what had never happened?

Then we fell to speaking of farming and crops, horses and fields, and among other items he mentioned that his best crops were obtained from the field in which my van was then located, called the Haunted Field.

“What,” thought I, “the haunted field! this must be seen into.”

And see into it I did, for five minutes later my guest was in a hypnotic trance, and from his lips I gathered the following very Christmassy story.