not very often, my lad,” said the sailor quietly. “They lies up in the cold water, more among the ice. We’re getting every day more into the warm.”

“I’m sorry there ar’n’t any whales,” said Tom. “How long might they be, say the biggest you ever see?”

“Oh!” said the sailor, “they mostly runs thirty or forty foot long, but I saw one once nearly eighty-foot.”

“What a whopper!” said Tom, giving me a droll look.

“Sounds big,” said the sailor, “but out here in the ocean, my lad, seventy or eighty-foot only seems to be a span long, and no size at all, while the biggest shark I ever see—”

“How long was that?” said Tom; “a hundred foot?”

“No,” said the sailor drily; “he was eighteen-foot long—a long, thin, hungry-looking fellow, with a mouth and jaws that would have taken off one of your legs like a shot.”

“Well, but if an eighty-foot whale don’t look big,” said Tom, “an eighteen-foot shark must be quite a shrimp.”

“Ah! you wouldn’t think so,” said the sailor quietly, “if you were overboard and one of ’em after you.”

“But I thought you’d got monsters out here at sea,” said Tom, giving me another of his cunning looks, as much as to say, “You see how I’ll lead him on directly.”

“So we have,” said the sailor, staring straight out before him, “only it don’t do to talk about ’em.”

“Why?” I said quickly, for the man’s quiet, serious way impressed me.

“Well, you see, sir,” he replied, “if a man says he’s seen a monster out at sea, and it isn’t a whale which people knows of, having been seen, they say directly he’s a liar, and laugh at him, and that isn’t pleasant.”

“Of course not,” I replied, “if he is telling the truth.”

“Of course, sir, if he’s telling the truth; and, take it altogether, what I know of sailors after being at sea thirty-two year, beginning as a boy of twelve, sailors ain’t liars.”

“Well, let’s hope not,” I said.

“They ain’t indeed, sir,” said the man earnestly. “They do foolish things, drinking too much when they get ashore after a voyage, and spending their money like asses, as the saying goes; but a chap as is at sea in the deep waters, and amongst storms and the lonesomeness of the great ocean, gets to be a serious sort of fellow—he isn’t the liar and romancer some people seem to think.”

“No, but you do spin yarns, some of you?” said Tom.

“Well, yes, of course,” said the sailor. “Why not sometimes for a bit of fun? but when a man’s in ’arnest he ought to be believed.”

“Of course,” said Tom; “but I say, mate, you never see the sea-serpent, did you?”

The man did not answer for a few moments, but stood gazing straight out to sea before saying quietly:

“I don’t know. A man sees some curious things out at sea in the course of thirty years; but he gets precious cautious about telling what he’s seen after being laughed at, and chaffed when he’s been only telling the simple truth. Why, I remember, once when I was out with one captain, we saw what we thought was the sea-serpent or something of the kind, and observations were taken, it was all entered in the log, and sent to the papers afterwards; and the skipper got laughed nearly out of his skin for a romancer. He was a queen’s captain—man-o’-war it was, and all was as regular as could be; officers and men saw it all, but they were so roasted afterwards that, when anything of the kind’s seen now, they say nothing about it.”

“But do you really mean to say you believe that there are monsters in the ocean that we have no regular account of in books?”

He turned to me, and pointed out to sea.

“Isn’t there room there for thousands of great things, my lad; such as we’ve never seen or heard of?” he said.

I nodded.

“Why, do you know that in some parts out here the water’s over four miles deep? They’ve measured it, my lad, and they know.”

“Say, Mas’r Harry, that’s more than your two mile,” cried Tom.

“Ay, and I dessay there’s parts where it’s more than twice as deep, and when you come to think of the thousands of miles you can sail without nearing land, I say there’s room for thousands of things such as nobody has ever seen.”

“That’s very true,” I said.

“Why, I remember, down at home in Norfolk, when I was a boy, there was a big pool that people never fished, because they said there was no fish in it, and so it had been longer than anybody could recollect; and at last there was a plan made to drain a bit of bog close by, and a great dyke was cut. This set the farmer the pool belonged to thinking that if he cut a ditch to the big dyke, he could empty the old pool, and if he did he would get ’bout three acres of good dry ground instead of a black peaty pool; so he set a lot o’ chaps at work one dry summer when they weren’t busy, and we boys went to see it done. Now, you may believe me or you mayn’t, my lads.”

“Oh, we’ll believe you; won’t we, Mas’r Harry?” said Tom grinning.

“Well, I shall,” I replied, and the sailor went on.

“When the water began to get low in that pool we used to see that there were fish in it, and at last there was a regular set out catching of them in the bits of holes where the water had left them.”

“Oh, I say, Mas’r Harry, don’t I wish we had been there!” cried Tom.

“Ay, it was fun, my lad, for we got scores of tench, some of ’em three and four pound weight, and there was six or seven carp ever so much bigger. One of ’em weighed nine pounds.”

“That was a fine un,” said Tom.

“But the biggest fish we got was a pike, and he was the only one there. That chap must have eat up all that had been before him, and he weighed three-and-thirty pound. He was close upon four foot long, and a gentleman there said if he had been in good condition he would have weighed five-and-forty, for he was as thin as a lath.”

“I should have liked to see that fish,” said Tom.

“Ay, it was a fine one. We boys daren’t tackle him, he was so big,” continued the sailor; “and then out of the mud they got bushels of great eels, some of the biggest I ever saw.”

“Did you though?” said Tom.

“Ay, we did. When the water had got right down low, you could see ’em squirming about like snakes, and when they’d got all we could see they laid down boards over the mud, and punched about in the soft places when great fellows kept coming up to the top, and they got no end more. They were the biggest eels ever I see, and as fat as butter.”

“Were they though?” said Tom.

“Ay, they were, my lads; and what I wanted to say was this—If so be as those fish could live in that bit of a three-acre pool without people knowing of their being there, don’t you think there can be no end of big fishes and things in the great waters, thousands of miles from shore, such as menfolks has never seen?”

“Well, it do seem likely,” said Tom; “but I never could swallow the sea-serpent.”

“No, my lad, more likely to swallow you,” said the sailor drily.

“But come now,” said Tom drily. “Did you ever come across the great sea-serpent?”

“A mate o’ mine,” said the sailor, “told me he once saw out Newfoundland way part of a great cuttle-fish that had been washed ashore after a storm. It was a great jellyfish sort of thing, and it was thirty foot long; and he said he was sure it couldn’t have been more than half of it, and the next day he saw one of its arms all full of suckers, and it was twenty foot long.”

“Well, that must have been a pleasant sort of thing,” said Tom, as I sat there listening thoughtfully, for the sailor seemed disposed to go on talking.

“I remember one year, fifteen years ago I daresay it is, we were going from Singapore to Hong