As he hung by the ladder, like a resting swimmer, the sea lightning played about his limbs at every stir; and he appeared in it ghastly, silvery, fishlike. He remained as mute as a fish, too. He made no motion to get out of the water, either. It was inconceivable that he should not attempt to come on board, and strangely troubling to suspect that perhaps he did not want to. And my first words were prompted by just that troubled incertitude.

     "What's the matter?" I asked in my ordinary tone, speaking down to the face upturned exactly under mine.

     "Cramp," it answered, no louder. Then slightly anxious, "I say, no need to call anyone."

     "I was not going to," I said.

     "Are you alone on deck?"

     "Yes."

     I had somehow the impression that he was on the point of letting go the ladder to swim away beyond my ken--mysterious as he came. But, for the moment, this being appearing as if he had risen from the bottom of the sea (it was certainly the nearest land to the ship) wanted only to know the time. I told him. And he, down there, tentatively:

     "I suppose your captain's turned in?"