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If a game hasn't begun yet – which we're a-coming, ain't we?

 

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Five bells in the middle watch and the brig Ariel was cracking on regardless in the fine blow, bound for Elsinore and then into the Baltic. By the light of the old, lopsided moon, Lieutenant Pullings, could discern the expanse of angry sea on either hand and in the far distance, on the starboard bow, a murk that might betoken a spectre of a...

And by the starboard hances, Fat Arse Jenkins was unfurling a whispered yarn of nautical misadventure and supernatural terror to a transfixed landsman – "No mortal ship" he was relating with relish "no

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sailors of flesh and blood were her crew. She can never make port, you see, and is fated to sail the oceans forever. If she is hailed by another ship, why her crew asks after folks long dead in countries that ain't no more."

Meanwhile, Pullings was gazing through his telescope. He was sure that there was a ship there, approaching fairly rapidly, but it seemed to be glowing with a ghostly light. He wondered whether he had eaten too much toasted cheese last night. He thought he heard a distant cry:
 



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