Certain it is that had the doctor lived to patent his idea, he would have completely revolutionized the social world. If our skipper had only clapped on the “darbies” when he put the doctor in his cabin, we might now be living in strangely-altered times. Just pause and deliberate on what wonders might have happened, but for the untimely madness and death of Doctor Angus Sinclair. You, gentle reader, will probably come to the conclusion that my yarn is like Heathen mythology--very fair reading, but without much to recommend it in the way of truth. If, however, you should require further proof of the authenticity of my story, you have only to fit out a suitable yacht, sail for Spitzbergen, hunt about for South Island, and having found it, you will probably also find the hut just as I have described it, perched half-way up the cliffs, in a bay (on the south of the island, mind you); and if you enter the said hut and search on the shelf over the wooden berth, you will find all that remains of Doctor Angus Sinclair; a relic that we in our hurry left behind; a relic that will prove my yarn to be strictly true, for the memento consists of the grand old doctor’s wonderful eyebrows. * * * * * Strange to say, amid the scores of stories which I heard in all parts of England, but few of them were connected with ghosts, visions, or apparitions, and from this paucity of tales of the supernatural, I have come to the conclusion that the majority of such stories are somewhat mythical and usually mere hearsay, not even second-hand versions of something that has really happened, but stories told by the fireside in the first place, and afterwards handed from mouth to mouth with numerous additions and alterations to suit places and individuals, until at length they become so changed and distorted that their inventors would not recognize the offspring of their own imagination, should they at any subsequent period listen to their recital. Usually, after a story had been told, if I put the question, “Did you see this?” the answer would be, “Oh, no; John Williams told me about it, and I believe he heard it from Tom Smith.” A search for Tom Smith would only result in the fact that he had heard it from Harry Jones, etc., so that, strive as one might, the actual participator in the gruesome adventure one wished to fathom could never be discovered. One very cold December day I happened to be passing through North Somersetshire, and whilst in the vicinity of Minehead, made the acquaintance of a farmer who was also a blacksmith. My stove had broken down, and one or two odd jobs of ironwork required to be done, so I procured the services of my new acquaintance, and when the various little repairs had been finished, invited him to share my evening meal, and join me in a pipe and hand at cards.