Europe and then jump overboard when you're half-way across."
At this point another old mariner cut into the conversation.
"Murty," he said disdainfully, "your memory's clogged. There was a smuggler lost, but his name was Johnny Caldwell."
"You're wrong," snorted old Murty. "I never forget a thing. Got the best memory above decks. 'Twas Jolly Cauldron. I'd stake my last dollar on it."
Guy left the café in a daze. More and more he questioned his own sanity. After all, what is the dividing line between sanity and insanity? The wild line of the docks which he frequented like a grim specter did not serve to make reality any more clear-cut. He walked wearily up West Street. At that moment he was more confused than ever. If old Murty was right, how could he explain his uncanny adventures? Although it was broad daylight he seemed to be groping about in the dark, trying to find his way blindfolded. He had no idea how to continue his search. So he walked along, his hands in his pockets, his gaze upon the ground, when suddenly someone slapped him on the back.
"What's the matter, dog?" a voice cried; "are you looking for your bark?"
There could be no mistaking that voice, nor the infectious laugh that accompanied it. He glanced up eagerly into the face of Jolly Cauldron.
"Are you a ghost?" he murmured.
"Perhaps," was the reply."If I were I'd be quite at home in New York, for is not this a city of shadows? However, I'm glad I met you, because we sail in half an hour. Even to a ghost, time is of value."
As Jolly Cauldron spoke he seized Guy's arm in his great steel fingers and hustled him along the waterfront to where The Poppy Pearl was berthed. Had he but known the truth he need not have been so imperative in his manner. There was nothing Guy wished for more than to sail again on that phantom ship; for so he was beginning to think of it.
When the tide turned, the schooner drifted out to sea. Guy stood in the stem and watched the city fade into a maze of humid mist. At that moment the city itself seemed wraith-like, the tops of the buildings melting into the clouds. Gradually, as the sails caught the wind, the schooner sped on and on, as though glad to be free, until the buildings seemed to verge into the mist, vanishing completely.
At last Guy had achieved his most ardent desire. He was back on The Poppy Pearl, and now as he trod the worm-eaten decks, the ship was far more real than the city which had just faded into the clouds.
There followed weeks of hard work, endless days of toil and nights in that insect-infested forecastle where the men cursed and sang ribald songs to pass the sluggish hours, nights when Guy believed the ship was in truth an eery thing of another world. He often sat by the hour on the steps leading to the deck, mulling over his problems. If these men were phantoms, then he was a phantom, too, for they ate the same food as he, slept in the same filthy quarters, worked on the same endless round of jobs. After all, what was reality? Were the people in New York and London real? Was anything real?
3
One night there was a frightful storm. Guy woke with a start from a troubled sleep, dimly conscious that some brooding peril hung over the ship. For a while he lay on his bunk trying to collect his wits. The hanging oil lamp sputtered dismally and swayed as though
