I could not afford to make myself a laughing-stock. Thisthing， whatever it was， I must face alone. I must work itout myself. I looked back to the spot where we had tiltedthe Bricklayer. It was vacant. Nothing moved. And for athird time I resumed my amid-ships pacing.
In the absence of the thing my fear died away and myintellectual poise returned. Of course it was not a ghost.
Dead men did not rise up. It was a joke， a cruel joke. Mymates of the forecastle， by some unknown means， werefrightening me. Twice already must they have seen me runaft. My cheeks burned with shame. In fancy I could hearthe smothered chuckling and laughter even then goingon in the forecastle. I began to grow angry. Jokes were allvery well， but this was carrying the thing too far. I was theyoungest on board， only a youth， and they had no rightto play tricks on me of the order that I well knew in thepast had made raving maniacs of men and women. I grewangrier and angrier， and resolved to show them that I wasmade of sterner stuff and at the same time to wreak myresentment upon them. If the thing appeared again， Imade my mind up that I would go up to it—furthermore，that I would go up to it knife in hand. When withinstriking distance， I would strike. If a man， he would getthe knife-thrust he deserved. If a ghost， well， it wouldn’thurt the ghost any， while I would have learned that deadmen did rise up.
Now I was very angry， and I was quite sure the thingwas a trick； but when the thing appeared a third time， inthe same spot， long， attenuated， and wavering， fear surgedup in me and drove most of my anger away. But I did notrun. Nor did I take my eyes from the thing. Both timesbefore， it had vanished while I was running away， so I hadnot seen the manner of its going. I drew my sheath-knifefrom my belt and began my advance. Step by step， nearerand nearer， the effort to control myself grew more severe.
The struggle was between my will， my identity， my veryself， on the one hand， and on the other， the ten thousandancestors who were twisted into the fibres of me andwhose ghostly voices were whispering of the dark and thefear of the dark that had been theirs in the time when theworld was dark and full of terror.
I advanced more slowly， and still the thing wavered andflitted with strange eerie lurches. And then， right beforemy eyes， it vanished. I saw it vanish. Neither to the rightnor left did it go， nor backward. Right there， while I gazedupon it， it faded away， ceased to be. I didn’t die， but Iswear， from what I experienced in those few succeedingmoments， that I know full well that men can die of fright.
I stood there， knife in hand， swaying automatically to theroll of the ship， paralysed with fear. Had the Bricklayersuddenly seized my throat with corporeal fingers andproceeded to throttle me， it would have been no morethan I expected. Dead men did rise up， and that would bethe most likely thing the malignant Bricklayer would do.
But he didn’t seize my throat. Nothing happened. And，since nature abhors a status， I could not remain there inthe one place forever paralysed. I turned and started aft. Idid not run. What was the use？ What chance had I againstthe malevolent world of ghosts？ Flight， with me， was theswiftness of my legs. The pursuit， with a ghost， was theswiftness of thought. And there were ghosts. I had seen one.
And so， stumbling slowly aft， I discovered the explanationof the seeming. I saw the mizzen topmast lurching acrossa faint radiance of cloud behind which was the moon. Theidea leaped in my brain. I extended the line between thecloudy radiance and the mizzen-topmast and found that itmust strike somewhere near the fore-rigging on the portside. Even as I did this， the radiance vanished. The drivingclouds of the breaking gale were alternately thickeningand thinning before the face of the moon， but neverexposing the face of the moon. And when the clouds wereat their thinnest， it was a very dim radiance that the moonwas able to make. I watched and waited. The next timethe clouds thinned I looked for’ard， and there was theshadow of the topmast， long and attenuated， wavering andlurching on the deck and against the rigging.
This was my first ghost. Once again have I seen aghost. It proved to be a Newfoundland dog， and I don’tknow which of us was the more frightened， for I hit thatNewfoundland a full right-arm swing to the jaw. Regardingthe Bricklayer’s ghost， I will say that I never mentionedit to a soul on board. Also， I will say that in all my life Inever went through more torment and mental sufferingthan on that lonely night-watch on the Sophie Sutherland.