me to the ground, extinguishing the little electric flash, and that,
rising suddenly from under me, had McWhirter in the air, and almost
overboard before I caught him. So dazed were we by the onslaught
that the thing--whatever it was--could have escaped, and left us
none the wiser. But, although it eluded us in the darkness, it did
not leave. It was there, whimpering to itself, searching for
something--the sheet. As I steadied Mac, it passed me. I caught
at it. Immediately the struggle began all over again. But this
time we had the advantage, and kept it. After a battle that seemed
to last all night, and that was actually fought all over that part
of the deck, we held the creature subdued, and Mac, getting a hand
free, struck a match.

It was Charlie Jones.

That, after all, is the story. Jones was a madman, a homicidal
maniac of the worst type. Always a madman, the homicidal element
of his disease was recurrent and of a curious nature.

He thought himself a priest of heaven, appointed to make ghastly
sacrifices at certain signals from on high. The signals I am not
sure of; he turned taciturn after his capture and would not talk.
I am inclined to think that a shooting star, perhaps in a particular
quarter of the heavens, was his signal. This is distinctly
possible, and is made probable by the stars which he had painted
with tar on his sacrificial robe.

The story of the early morning of August 12 will never be fully
known; but much of it, in view of our knowledge, we were able to
reconstruct. Thus--Jones ate his supper that night, a mild and