The interrupted silver chain by the quarterdeck balustrade had now become
continuous, and the balusters made a herring-bone over their own
motionless reflections. The spilt water from the pipkin had dried, and
the pipkin was not to be seen. Abel Keeling stood beside the mast, erect
as God made man to go. With his leathery hand he smote upon the bell. He
waited for the space of a minute, and then cried:

"Ahoy!... Ship ahoy!... What ship's that?"


III

We are not conscious in a dream that we are playing a game the beginning
and end of which are in ourselves. In this dream of Abel Keeling's a
voice replied:

"_Hallo, it's found its tongue.... Ahoy there! What are you?_"

Loudly and in a clear voice Abel Keeling called: "Are you a ship?"

With a nervous giggle the answer came:

"_We are a ship, aren't we, Ward? I hardly feel sure.... Yes, of course,
we're a ship. No question about us. The question is what the dickens
you are._"

Not all the words these voices used were intelligible to Abel Keeling,
and he knew not what it was in the tone of these last words that reminded
him of the honour due to the _Mary of the Tower_. Blister-white and at