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The Island of Doctor Moreau At the same time my eye caught my hand, thin so that it looked like a dirty skin-purse full of loose bones, and all the business of the boat came back to me.

“Have some of this,” said he, and gave me a dose of some scarlet stuff, iced.

It tasted like blood, and made me feel stronger.

“You were in luck,” said he, “to get picked up by a ship with a medical man aboard.” He spoke with a slobbering articulation, with the ghost of a lisp.

“What ship is this?” I said slowly, hoarse from my long silence.

“It‘s a little trader from Arica and Callao. I never asked where she came from in the beginning,—out of the land of born fools, I guess. I‘m a passenger myself, from Arica. The silly ass who owns her,—he‘s captain too, named Davies,—he‘s lost his certificate, or something. You know the kind of man,—calls the thing the ‘Ipecacuanha,’ of all silly, infernal names; though when there‘s much of a sea without any wind, she certainly acts according.”

(Then the noise overhead began again, a 16