"Go down again, Mr. Bruce, and ask his name."
The mate hesitated. "I'm not a superstitious man," said he; "but, hang it, I don't relish the idea of facing him again alone."
"Well, well," said the captain, laughing, "I don't mind accompanying you. This is not like you, Bruce, not like you at all—you're not in liquor. It is a mere delusion."
The captain descended the stairs accompanied by the mate; and, sure enough, the cabin was empty.
"There you are, convicted of dreaming," said the former. "Did not I tell you as much?"
"I can't say how it was, sir," replied Bruce, "but I could take my oath on the Gospels that I saw a man writing on your slate."
"If he wrote, there must be something to show for it," said the captain, as he took up the slate, and at once exclaimed, "Why—good God! there is something here. Is this your fist, Mr. Bruce?"
The mate examined the slate, and there in plain, legible characters stood the words "Steer to the Nor'-West."
"You have been playing tricks," said the captain impatiently.
"On my word as a man and a sailor, sir," replied Bruce, "I know no more about this matter than just what I told you."
The captain mused, seated himself, and handing over the slate to the mate, said, "You write on the back of this slate, Steer to the Nor’-West."
Bruce did as required, and the captain narrowly compared the two writings; they differed entirely.
"Send down the second mate," he ordered.
Bruce did as required. On entering the cabin, the captain bade him write the same words, and he did so.
