I looked down. The green starboard light threw a light over
only a small part of the deck. The red light did no better. The
masthead was possibly thirty feet above the hull, and served no
illuminating purpose whatever. From the bridge forward the deck
was practically dark.

"You yelled, and then what happened?"

His reply was vague--troubled.

"I'm not sure," he said slowly. "It seemed to fade away. The white
got smaller--went to nothing, like a cloud blown away in a gale.
I flung the spike."

I accepted the story with outward belief and a mental reservation.
But I did not relish the idea of the spike Adams had thrown lying
below on deck. No more formidable weapon short of an axe, could be
devised. I said as much.

"I'm going down for it," I said; "if you're nervous, you'd better
keep it by you. But don't drop it on everything that moves below.
You almost got Burns."

I went down cautiously, and struck a match where Adams had indicated
the spike. It was not there. Nor had Burns picked it up. A
splintered board showed where it had struck, and a smaller
indentation where it had rebounded; but the marlinespike was gone,
and Burns had not seen it. We got a lantern and searched
systematically, without result. Burns turned to me a face ghastly
in the oil light.