Dracula

get an insurance she put on his life. He blew nigh the top of his

head off with an old musket that they had for scarin’ the crows

with. «Twarn’t for crows then, for it brought the clegs’ and the

dowps to him. That’s the 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 mother was so pious that

she’d be sure to go to heaven, an’ he didn’t want to addle where

she was. Now isn’t that stean at any rate" he hammered it with

his stick as he spoke «a pack of lies? and won’t it make Gabriel

keckle when Geordie comes pantin’ up the grees with the tomb-

stean balanced on his hump, and asks it to 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 favourite seat, and

I cannot leave it; and now I find I must go on sitting over the

grave of a suicide.»

«That won’t harm ye, my pretty; an’ it may make poor Geor-

die gladsome to have so trim a lass sittin’ on his lap. That won’t

hurt ye. Why, I’ve sat here off an’ on for nigh twenty years past.

64 Dracula

an’ it hasn’t done me no harm. Don’t ye fash about them as lies

under ye, or that doesn’ lie there either! It’ll be time 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, an’ 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 took hands as we sat; and she told me all over again about

Arthur and their coming marriage. That made me just a little

heart-sick, for I haven’t heard from Jonathan for a whole month.

The same day. I came up here alone, for I am very sad. There

was no letter for me. I hope there cannot be anything the matter

with Jonathan. The clock has just struck nine. I see the lights

scattered all over the town, sometimes in rows where the streets

are, and sometimes singly; they run right up the Esk and die

away in the curve of the valley. To my left the view is cut off

by a black line of roof of the old house next the abbey. The sheep

and lambs are bleating in the fields away behind me, and there

is a clatter of a donkey’s hoofs up the paved road below. The

band on the pier is playing a harsh waltz in good time, and

further along the quay there is a Salvation Army meeting in a

back street. Neither of the bands hears the other, but up here I

hear and see them both. I wonder where Jonathan is and if he is

thinking of me! I wish he were here.

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

5 June. The case of Renfield grows more interesting the more

I get to understand 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 some settled

scheme of his own, but what it is I do not yet know. His redeem-

ing quality is a love of animals, though, indeed, he has such

curious turns in it that I sometimes imagine he is only abnorm-

ally cruel. His pets are of odd sorts. Just now his hobby is catch-

ing flies. He has at present such a quantity that I have had

myself to expostulate. To my astonishment, he did not break

out into a fury, as I expected, but took the matter in simple

seriousness. He thought for 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 big fellows in a box. He keeps feeding them with his

Mina Murray’s Journal 65

flies, and the number of the latter is becoming sensibly dimin-

ished, although he has used half his food in attracting more flies

from outside to his room.

j July. His spiders are now becoming as great a nuisance as

his flies, and to-day I told him that he must get rid of them. He

looked very sad at this, so I said that he must clear out some of

them, at all events. He cheerfully acquiesced in this, and I gave

him the same time as before for reduction. He disgusted me much

while with him, for when a horrid blow-fly, bloated with some

carrion food, buzzed into the room, he caught it, held it exult-

antly for a few moments between his finger and thumb, and,

before I knew what he was going 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 very wholesome; that it was life, strong life, and gave

fife to him. This gave me an 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 note-book in which he

is always jotting down something. Whole pages of it are filled

with masses of figures, generally single numbers added up in

batches, and then the totals added in batches again, as though he

were «focussing» some account, as the auditors put it.

8 Jiily. There is a method in his madness, and the rudimen-

tary idea in my mind is growing. It will be a whole idea soon, and

then, oh, unconscious cerebration! 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 there were any change.

Things remain as they were except that he has parted with

some of his pets and got a new one. He has managed to get a

sparrow, and has already partially tamed it. His means of taming

is simple, for already the spiders have diminished. Those that

do remain, however, are well fed, for he still brings in the flies

by tempting them with his food.

ig July. We are progressing. My friend has now a whole

colony of sparrows, and his flies and spiders are almost obliter-

ated. When I came in he ran to me and said he wanted to ask

me a great favour a very, very great favour; and as he spoke he

fawned on me like a dog. I asked him what it was, and he said,

with a sort of rapture in his voice and bearing:

«A kitten, a nice little, sleek playful kitten, that I can play

with, and teach, and feed and feed and feed!» I was not

66 Dracula

unprepared for this request, for I had noticed how his pets wef. t

on increasing in size and vivacity, but I did not care that his

pretty family of tame sparrows should be wiped out in the same

manner as the flies and the spiders; so I said I would see about it,

and asked him if he would not rather have a cat than a kitten.

His eagerness betrayed him as he answered:

«Oh, yes, I would like a cat! I only asked for a kitten lest you

should refuse me a cat. No one would refuse me 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 of danger in it, for there was a

sudden fierce, sidelong look which meant killing. The man is an

undeveloped homicidal maniac. I shall test him with his present

craving and see how it will work out; then I shall know more.

10 p. m. 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 let him have a cat; that his salva-

tion depended upon it. I was firm, however, and told him that

he could not have it, whereupon he went without a word, and

sat down, gnawing his fingers, in the corner where I had found

him. I shall see him in the morning early.

20 July. Visited Renfield very early, before the attendant

went his rounds. Found him 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; and beginning

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

a few 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 about him during the day.

11 a. m. The attendant has just been to me to say that

Renfield has been very 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 them raw!»

ii p. m. I gave Renfield a strong opiate to-night, enough

to make even him sleep, and took away his pocket-book to

look at it. The thought that has been buzzing about my brain

lately is complete, and the theory proved. My homicidal maniac

is of a peculiar kind. I shall have to invent a new classification

Mina Murray’s Journal 67

for him, and call him a zoophagous (life-eating) maniac; what he

desires is to absorb as many lives as he can, and he has laid

himself out to achieve it in a cumulative way. He gave many

flies to one spider and many spiders to one bird, and then wanted

a cat to eat the many birds. What would have been his later

steps? It would almost be worth while to complete the experi-

ment. It might be done if there were only a sufficient cause. Men

sneered at vivisection, and yet look at its results to-day! Why

not advance science in its most difficult and vital aspect the

knowledge of the brain? Had I even the secret of one such mind

did I hold the key to the fancy of even one lunatic I might

advance my own branch of science to a pitch compared with

which Burdon-Sanderson’s physiology or Ferrier’s brain-knowl-

edge would be as nothing. If only there were a sufficient cause!

I must not think too much of this, or I may be tempted; a good

cause might turn the scale with me, for may not I too be of an

exceptional brain, congenitally?

How well the man reasoned; lunatics always do within their

own scope. I wonder at how many lives he values a man, or if at

only one. He has closed the account most accurately, and to-day

begun a new record. How many of us begin a new record with

each day of our lives?

To me it seems only yesterday that my whole life ended with

my new hope, and that truly I began a new record. So it will be

until the Great Recorder sums me up and closes my ledger ac-

count with a balance to profit or loss. Oh, Lucy, Lucy, I cannot

be angry with you, nor can I be angry with my friend whose

happiness is yours; but I must only wait on hopeless and work.

Work! work!

If I only 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 like whispering to one’s self and listening at the same

time. And there is also something about the shorthand symbols

that makes it different from writing. I am unhappy about Lucy

and about Jonathan. I had not heard from Jonathan for some

time, and was very concerned; but yesterday dear Mr. Hawkins,

who is always so kind, sent me a letter from him. I had written

asking him if he had heard, and he said the enclosed had just

been received. It is only a line dated from Castle Dracula, and

68 Dracula

says that he is just starting for home. That is not 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 habit of walk-

ing in her sleep. Her mother has spoken to me about it, and we

have decided 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 of houses and along the edges of cliffs and then get sud-

denly wakened and fall over with a despairing cry that echoes all

over the place. Poor dear, she is naturally anxious about Lucy,

and she tells me that her husband, Lucy’s father, had the same

nabit; that he would get up in the night and dress himself and go

out, if he were not stopped. Lucy is to be married hi the autumn,

and she is already planning out her dresses and how her house is

to be arranged. I sympathise with her, for I do the same, only

Jonathan and I will start in life in a very simply way, and shall

have to try to make both ends meet. Mr. Holmwood he is the

Hon. Arthur Holmwood, only son of Lord Godalming is

coming up here very shortly as soon as he can leave town, for

his father is not very well, and I think dear Lucy is counting

the moments till he comes. She wants to take him up to the seat

on the churchyard cliff and show him the beauty of Whitby. I

daresay it is the waiting which disturbs her; she will be all right

when he arrives.

2*7 July. No news from Jonathan. I am getting quite uneasy

about him, though why I should I do not know; but I do wish

that he would write, if it were only a single line. Lucy walks

more than ever, and each night I am awakened by her moving

about the room. Fortunately, the weather is so hot that she

cannot get cold; but still the anxiety and the perpetually being

wakened is beginning to tell on me, and I am getting nervous and

wakeful myself. Thank God, Lucy’s health keeps up. Mr. Holm-

wood has been suddenly called to Ring to see his father, who has

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 a lovely rose-pink. She has lost that anaemic look

which she had. I pray it will all last.

5 August. Another week gone, 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 would have written. I look at that

last letter of his, but somehow it does not satisfy me. It does not

read like him, and yet it is his writing. There is no mistake of

that. Lucy has not walked much in her sleep the last week, but

Mina Murray’s Journal 69

there is an odd concentration about her which I do not under-

stand; even in her sleep she seems to be watching me. She tries

the door, and finding it locked, goes about the room 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; but no one has heard a word of Jona-

than since that last letter. I must only pray to God for patience.

Lucy is more excitable than ever, but is otherwise well. Last night

was very threatening, and the fishermen say that we are in for a

storm. I must try to watch it and learn the weather signs. To-day

is a grey day, and the sun as I write is hidden in thick clouds,

high over Kettleness. Everything is grey except the green grass,

which seems like emerald amongst it; grey earthy rock; grey

clouds, tinged with the sunburst at the far edge, hang over the

grey sea, into which the sand-points stretch like grey fingers.

The sea is tumbling in over the shallows and the sandy flats with

a roar, muffled in the sea-mists drifting inland. The horizon is lost

in a grey mist. All is vastness; the clouds are piled up like giant

rocks, and there is a «brool» over the sea that sounds like some

presage of doom. Dark figures are 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 and

dip in the ground swell as they sweep into the harbour, bending

to the scuppers. Here comes old Mr. Swales. He is making straight

for me, and I can see, by the way he lif ts his hat, that he wants to

talk

I have been quite touched by the change in the poor old man.

When he sat down beside 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 mine and

asked him to speak fully; so he said, leaving his hand in mine:

«I’m afraid, my deary, that I must have shocked you by all

the wicked things I’ve been sayin’ about the dead, and such like,

for weeks past; but I didn’t mean them, and I want ye to remem-

ber that when 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 scart of it; an’ that’s why I’ve took to

makin’ light of it, so that I’d cheer up my own 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

70 Dracula

expect; and I’m so nigh it that the Aud Man is already whettin’

his scythe. Ye see, I can’t get out o’ the habit of caffin’ about it

all at once; the chafts will wag as they be used to. Some day soon

the Angel of Death will sound his trumpet for me. But don’t ye

dooal an’ greet, my deary!» for he saw that I was crying

«if he 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 death be 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’ and wonderin’.

Maybe it’s in that wind out over the sea that’s bringin’ with it

loss and wreck, and sore distress, and sad hearts. Look! look!» he

cried suddenly. «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 it comin’. Lord, make me answer cheerful

when my call comes!» He held up his arms 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 spy-glass

under his arm. He stopped to talk with me, as he always does,

but all the time kept looking at a strange ship.

«I can’t make her out,» he said; «she’s a Russian, by the look

of her; but she’s knocking about in the queerest way. She doesn’t

know her mind a bit; she seems to see the storm coming, but can’t

decide whether to run up north in the open, 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 of

wind. We’ll hear more of her before this time to-morrow.»

CHAPTER VII

CUTTING FROM «THE DAILYGRATH,» 8 AUGUST

(Pasted in Mina Murray ’s Journal.)

From a Correspondent.

Whitby.

ONE of the greatest and suddenest storms on record has just been

experienced here, with results both strange and unique. The

weather had been somewhat sultry, but not to any degree un-

common in the month of August. Saturday evening was as fine as

was ever known, and the great body of holiday-makers laid out

yesterday for visits to Mulgrave Woods, Robin Hood’s Bay, Rig

Mill, Runswick, Staithes, and the various trips hi the neighbour-

hood of Whitby. The steamers Emma and Scarborough made

trips up and down the coast, and there was an unusual amount

of «tripping» both to and from Whitby. The day was unusually

fine till the afternoon, when some of the gossips who frequent the

East Cliff churchyard, and from that commanding eminence

watch the wide sweep of sea visible to the north and east, called

attention to a sudden show of" mares’-tails" high in the sky to

the north-west. The wind was then blowing from the south-west

in the mild degree which in barometrical language is ranked

«No. 2: light breeze.» The coastguard on duty at once made

report, and one old fisherman, who for more than half a century

has kept watch on weather* signs from the East Cliff, foretold in

an emphatic manner the coming of a sudden storm. The ap-

proach of sunset was so very beautiful, so grand in its masses of

splendidly-coloured clouds, that there was quite an assemblage

on the walk along the cliff in the old churchyard to enjoy the

beauty. Before the sun dipped below the black mass of Kettle-

ness, standing boldly athwart the western sky, its downward

way was marked by myriad clouds of every sunset-colour

flame, purple, pink, green, violet, and all the tints of gold; with

here and there masses not large, but of seemingly absolute black-

ness, in all sorts of shapes, as well outlined as colossal silhouettes.

The experience was not lost on the painters, and doubtless some

of the sketches of the «Prelude to the Great Storm» will grace

the R. A. and R. I. walls in May next. More than one captain

72 Dracula

made up his mind then and there that his «cobble» or his

«mule,» as they term the different classes of boats, would

remain in the harbour till the storm had passed. The wind fell

away entirely during the evening, and at midnight there was a

dead calm, a sultry heat, and that prevailing intensity which, on

the approach of thunder, affects persons of a sensitive nature.

There were but few lights in sight at sea, for even the coasting

steamers, which usually «hug» the shore so closely, kept well to

seaward, and but few fishing-boats were in sight. The only sail

noticeable was a foreign schooner with all sails set, which was

seemingly going westwards. The foolhardiness or ignorance of

her officers was a prolific theme for comment whilst she remained

in sight, and efforts were made to signal her to reduce sail in face

of her danger. Before the night shut down she was seen with sails

idly flapping as she gently rolled on the undulating swell of the

sea,

«As idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean.»

Shortly before ten o’clock the stillness of the air grew quite

oppressive, and the silence was so marked that the bleating of a

sheep inland or the barking of a dog in the town was distinctly

heard, and the band on the pier, with its li vely French air, was like

a discord in the great harmony of nature’s silence. A little after

midnight came a strange sound from over the sea, and high

overhead the air began to carry a strange, faint, hollow booming.

Then without warning the tempest broke. With a rapidity

which, at the time, seemed incredible, and even afterwards is

impossible to realize, the whole aspect of na. ture at once became

convulsed. The waves rose in growing fury, each overtopping its

fellow, till in a very few minutes the lately glassy sea was like a

roaring and devouring monster. White-crested waves beat madly

on the level sands and rushed up the shelving cliffs; others broke

over the piers, and with their spume swept the lanthorns of the

lighthouses which rise from the end of either pier of Whitby

Harbour. The wind roared like thunder, and blew with such

force that it was with difficulty that even strong men kept their

feet, or clung with grim clasp to the iron stanchions. It was found

necessary to clear the entire piers from the mass of onlookers,

or else the fatalities of the night would have been increased

manifold. To add to the difficulties and dangers of the time,

masses of sea-fog came drifting inland white, wet clouds, which

swept by in ghostly fashion, so dank and damp and cold that it

needed but little effort of imagination to think that the spirits

Cutting from «The Dailygraph» 7,S

of those lost at sea were touching their living brethren with the

clammy hands of death, and many a one shuddered as the wreaths

of sea-mist swept by. At times the mist cleared, and the sea for

some distance could be seen in the glare of the lightning, which

now came thick and fast, followed by such sudden peals of thun-

der that the whole sky overhead seemed trembling under the

shock of the footsteps of the storm.

Some of the scenes thus revealed were of immeasurable

grandeur and of absorbing interest the sea, running mountains

high, threw skywards with each wave mighty masses of white

foam, which the tempest seemed to snatch at and whirl away

into space; here and there a fishing-boat, with a rag of sail, run-

ning madly for shelter before the blast; now and again the white

wings of a storm-tossed sea-bird. On the summit of the East

Cliff the new searchlight was ready for experiment, but had not

yet been tried. The officers in charge of it got it into working

order, and in the pauses of the inrushing mist swept with it the

surface of the sea. Once or twice its service was most effective, as

when a fishing-boat, with gunwale under water, rushed into the

harbour, able, by the guidance of the sheltering light, to avoid

the danger of dashing against the piers. As each boat achieved

the safety of the port there was a shout of joy from the mass of

people on shore, a shout which for a moment seemed to cleave

the gale and was then swept away in its rush.

Before long the searchlight discovered some distance away

a schooner with all sails set, apparently the same vessel which

had been noticed earlier in the evening. The wind had by this

time backed to the east, and there was a shudder amongst the

watchers on the cliff as they realized the terrible danger in which

she now was. Between her and the port lay the great flat reef on

which so many good ships have from time to time suffered, and,

with the wind blowing from its present quarter, it would be quite

impossible that she should fetch the entrance of the harbour. It

was now nearly the hour of high tide, but the waves were so great

that in their troughs the shallows of the shore were almost visible,

and the schooner, with all sails set, was rushing with such speed

that, in the words of one old salt, «she must fetch up somewhere,

if it was only in hell.» Then came another rush of sea-fog, greater

than any hitherto a mass of dank mist, which seemed to close

on all things like a grey pall, and left available to men only

the organ of hearing, for the roar of the tempest, and the crash of

the thunder, and the booming of the mighty billows came

through the damp oblivion even louder than before. The rays of

M -r Dracula

the searchlight were kept fixed on the harbour mouth across the

East Pier, where the shock was expected, and men waited

breathless. The wind suddenly shifted to the north-east, and the

remnant of the sea-fog melted in the blast; and then, mirabile

dictu, between the piers, leaping from wave to wave as it rushed

at headlong speed, swept the strange schooner before the blast,

with all sail set, and gained the safety of the harbour. The

searchlight followed her, and a shudder ran through all who saw

her, for lashed to the helm was a corpse, with drooping head,

which swung horribly to and fro at each motion of the ship. No

other form could be seen on deck at all. A great awe came on air

as they realised that the ship, as if by a miracle, had found the

harbour, unsteered save by the hand of a dead man! However,

all took place more quickly than it takes to write these words.

The schooner paused not, but rushing across the harbour, pitched

herself on that accumulation of sand and gravel washed by many

tides and many storms into the south-east corner of the pier

jutting under the East Cliff, known locally as Tate Hill Pier.

There was of course a considerable concussion as the vessel

drove up on the sand heap. Every spar, rope, and stay was

strained, and some of the" top-hammer» came crashing down.

But, strangest of all, the very instant the shore was touched, an

immense dog sprang up on deck from below, as if shot up by the

concussion, and running forward, jumped from the bow on the

sand. Making straight for the steep cliff, where the churchyard

hangs over the laneway to the East Pier so steeply that some of

the flat tombstones «thruff-steans» or «through-stones,» as

they call them in the Whitby vernacular actually project over

where the sustaining cliff has fallen away, it disappeared in the

darkness, which seemed intensified just beyond the focus of the

searchlight.

It so happened that there was no one at the moment on Tate

Hill Pier, as all those whose houses are in close proximity were

either in bed or were out on the heights above. Thus the coast-

guard on duty on the eastern side of the harbour, who at once

ran down to the little pier, was the first to climb on board. The

men working the searchlight, after scouring the entrance of the

harbour without seeing anything, then turned the light on

the derelict and kept it there. The coastguard ran aft, and when

he came beside the wheel, bent over to exarrTne it, and recoiled at,

once as though under some sudden emotion. This seemed to pique

general curiosity, and quite a number of people began to run. It is

a good way round from the West Cliff by the Drawbridge to

Cutting from «The Dailygraph» 75

Tate H21 Pier, but your correspondent is a fairly good

runner, and came well ahead of the crowd. When I arrived,

however, I found already assembled on the pier a crowd,

whom the coastguard and police refused to allow to come on

board. By the courtesy of the chief boatman, I was, as your

correspondent, permitted to climb on deck, and] was one of a

small group who saw the dead seaman whilst actually lashed to

the wheel.

It was no wonder that the coastguard was surprised, or even

awed, for not often can such a sight have been seen. The man

was simply fastened by his hands, tied one over the other, to a

spoke of the wheel. Between the inner hand and the wood was a

crucifix, the set of beads on which it was fastened being around

both wrists and wheel, and all kept fast by the binding cords. The

poor fellow may have been seated at one time, but the flapping

and buffeting of the sails had worked through the rudder of the

wheel and dragged him to and fro, so that the cords with which

he was tied had cut the flesh to the bone. Accurate note was

made of the state of things, and a doctor Surgeon J. M. Caffyn,

of 33, East Elliot Place who came immediately after me, de-

clared, after making examination, that the man must have been

dead for quite two days. In his pocket was a bottle, carefully

corked, empty save for a little roll of paper, which proved to be

the addendum to the log. The coastguard said the man must

have tied up his own hands, fastening the knots with his teeth.

The fact that a coastguard was the first on board may save some

complications, later on, in the Admiralty Court; for coastguards

cannot claim the salvage which is the right of the first civilian

entering on a derelict. Already, however, the legal tongues are

wagging, and one young law student is loudly asserting that the

rights of the owner are already completely sacrificed, his prop-