# Down to the Sea/The Subconscious Finnegan

pp. 71–89.

### THE SUBCONSCIOUS FINNEGAN

THEY were on the after part of the superstructure-deck—the loafing-place of officers off duty—and they were discussing poor old Finnegan. Mr. Clarkson, the executive, was there; Mr. Felton, Mr. Parmlee, the chaplain; Dr. Bryce, the surgeon; and the chief engineer—a man skeptical of all things unproved by mathematics. Finnegan was down in the "brig"—the slatted ship's prison on the berth-deck—sleeping off the effects of the drink that had undone him; and so could take no part in a discussion affecting himself. But he had an able champion in the surgeon, who had just answered the chaplain's assertion that he was past redemption.
"Not at all," he had said. "All he needs is enough Dutch courage, and he is a better man than he ever could have been without it."
"But is not that an index of failure?" asked Mr. Parmlee. "God never created man in his image to then depend upon whisky."
"How do you know? If He made man, He made whisky."
"He's right, Mr. Parmlee," said Clarkson. "Of course he can get drunk if he drinks enough; but it takes an amount that would kill an ordinary man. And what would paralyze an ordinary man—say a quart—is just Finnegan's load. It wakes him up, and he's at his best."
"But isn't it funny," ventured young Mr. Felton, "that it should work so differently on Finnegan? Even granting his superior capacity, at no stage of intoxication is the ordinary man roused to his fullest mental activity."
"Yes, he is," quickly rejoined the surgeon. "Only he doesn't realize it. The mood passes too quickly. In Finnegan's case, seasoned as he is, he can make the most of this stage. In fact, he falls back upon his subconscious mind. And the subconscious mind, gentlemen, is almost supreme in its intelligence and knowledge."
"What do you mean by the subconscious mind?" asked the engineer. "Is it a real thing—an entity—or only a figure of speech?"
"An entity—the primordial brain; the intelligence that cares for drunkards and children, for sleepwalkers, blind men, homing pigeons, and exiled cats. It sees without eyes, hears without ears, and talks, or, at least, communicates with other minds in sympathy with itself. We call this telepathy. It is the language of brute creation."
"And where in the body is this primordial brain doctor?" asked Mr. Felton. "In the head?"
"Right where you carry the brain of your Whitehead torpedoes, Mr. Felton—amidships—distributed along the spinal-cord and in the solar plexus."
"I know that a punch in the solar plexus is often fatal."
"Exactly—fatal as a bullet through the head. When that brain is disturbed, if only for a second or two, the heart stops beating for lack of orders to beat. That brain attends to all involuntary bodily functions."
"So Finnegan's brain is in his stomach," commented the engineer. " Always thought so."
"It's hardly a brain, though," said the surgeon. "The brain is merely the central station of the five senses, and what it knows it receives through them. This subconscious mind, as I said, is supreme. It knows the time without the help of the clock. You've often wakened at eight bells just before the bell strikes, haven't you? It is clairvoyant, telepathic, and absolute in memory. It remembers for life every face passed in a crowd, every word heard from babyhood to death. And the strange part of all this is that in spite of its wonderful powers it will believe what is told it, no matter how absurd."
"Is that why a hypnotist can make such a fool of a fellow?" asked Mr. Felton.
"Exactly. The subconscious, or subjective, mind believes itself a dog, and proceeds to bark—or a cat, horse, scrubwoman, or whatever is suggested to it. It lacks the power of criticism, and is innocent of suspicion."
"Do you think," said the executive, "that if Finnegan's subconscious mind were told that he didn't like whisky, it would believe it? "
"Not only would it believe, but would act upon it, and Finnegan would lose the taste for it."
"Then, in the name of all that is good, let us try," said the chaplain, enthusiastically.
"There are strong reasons why we should not," said the surgeon. "First, Finnegan is already in the subjective state when drunk, and bound by auto-suggestions in favor of whisky which might overcome any from an outside source that would conflict. When sober he is a nervous wreck, unable to be hypnotized, too irritable and antagonistic, you see. Second, he is better off under his present form of subjectiveness than he ever could be otherwise, either as a normal man or a continuous hypnotic subject. Third, It might kill him. Though the spirit might be willing, as Mr. Parmlee would say, the flesh is weak, and with his whole nervous system attuned to alcohol—every brain-cell charged with it—he could not survive the change."
"Well," said Mr, Clarkson, determinedly, "you could watch him, couldn't you, and, if things went wrong, straighten him up with whisky?"
"Yes, provided I could make things go wrong. I am not a hypnotist."
"What is a hypnotist?"
"Any person who is positive, for lack of a better term, compared with the subject's negative. Any person whom Finnegan fears, loves, or respects—in short, any one who has a commanding influence over him, can hypnotize him by the ordinary methods."
"I am all that," said Mr. Clarkson. "What are the methods?"
"The simplest is to induce the subject to look steadily at some bright object—such as a brass ball or button, a dancing spot of sunlight reflected from a mirror, a star in the sky, or anything that will fix the attention and slowly distract the objective mind—the brain—from the world. Then that brain will doze off, as in sleep, and the subjective brain will arise to the situation."
Mr. Clarkson stepped to the break of the superstructure, then looked back and said to the surgeon: "He's been in about four hours. Is that long enough to sober him up?"
"Plenty, if he has slept."
"Always does," said Mr. Clarkson. Then he called down to an orderly to direct the master-at-arms to release Finnegan from the brig and bring him up.
Finnegan soon appeared, in the custody of the master-at-arms, unkempt and unwashed, his gray hair tousled over his wrinkled face, his eyes blinking stupidly in the strong sunlight. "Just waked up, sir," said the master-at-arms. "Hungry and on very bad terms with himself. His language is very disrespectful to the service, sir."
"Very well," said the executive officer. "We'll attend to him."
The petty officer departed; Finnegan looked sourly around on his investigators and saluted. They returned the scrutiny, and all answered the salute.
"Finnegan," said Mr. Clarkson, sternly, "fix your eyes on that gilt ball of the flagstaff. Look at it steadily and see if you can see anything wrong with it."
"Got a twist in it, sir. The sheave-holes don't lay 'thwartships. One's forrard and t'other aft. But I'm an old man, sir; I can't climb like I—"
"Never mind. Look at it."
Finnegan looked. "Wants a new coat, sir," he said at length.
"Yes, we know that. What else? Look steadily at it."
"Flagstaff has a little list to port, sir. It got warped in the gravin'-dock at Malta, when we lay one way so long."
"That's all right. Look at it. Look hard."
Finnegan stared at the ball; the rest stared at him, Mr. Parmlee with almost boyish eagerness in his face, the engineer with grinning incredulity.
"Give him a drink," said the latter, as Finnegan's eyes wandered from the gilt globe to their faces. The old fellow's face brightened.
"Good idea," remarked the surgeon. "It'll steady him a little."
He sent an order down to the sick-bay by the orderly, and soon a stiff allowance—a full "second mate's drink"—arrived from below. Finnegan imbibed it gratefully.
"That reached his subconsciousness, I'll wager," said the engineer.
"Thanky, sir," said Finnegan, wiping his mouth and looking at the surgeon. "It's very good stuff, sir; but if I might make bold to say so, sir, Mr. Parmlee, askin' his pardon, has much better."
"Finnegan!" exclaimed the agitated chaplain, with his face aflame.
The surgeon and executive smiled, but the rest roared.
"Never mind that, Finnegan," said Mr. Clarkson. Look at that ball."
Again the old man stared at the ball, and again his eyes wandered. The surgeon beckoned the first lieutenant aside. "Afraid it won't work, Clarkson," he said, softly. "Try pure mesmerism. Sit him down, make him look into your eyes, and pass your hands downward before his face. Command him mentally—that is, will—that he go to sleep. It is possible that you have projective force. There is such a thing distinct from the subjective power of the other."
"Sit down on that skylight," commanded Mr. Clarkson, approaching Finnegan.
"All right, sir, if you say so," whined the old man. "But you want ter square me wi' the master-at-arms, sir. Last time I sat down on a skylight he—"
"Never mind the master-at-arms. Sit down!"
Finnegan gingerly seated himself, looking around nervously. Mr. Clarkson faced him and said, sternly, "Look me right in the eyes."
Finnegan did so. Mr. Clarkson elevated his hands and brought them down with a sweeping gesture before the face of the victim. The victim looked curiously at him. Again the officer raised his hands and brought them down, while his face assumed a stern, almost fierce expression.
"Tell him he's sleepy," whispered the surgeon in his ear.
"You are sleepy," said the officer. "You are very sleepy. Go to sleep."
"I never could sleep on deck, sir," protested the old fellow. "Some men can calk off the whole watch in a coil o' rope, but I have to turn in, sir."
Mr. Clarkson continued the passes. "You are sleepy," he repeated. "Look me right in the eyes and go to sleep."
"I ain't sleepy a bit, sir."
"Look me in the eyes!" sternly commanded the lieutenant. Finnegan obeyed him, and the mesmeric passes continued.
"They do say, sir," said Finnegan, with a half-confident, half-deprecating smile—"the fellows on the fo'castle, I mean, sir—they say that at times—askin' yer pardon, I say—that sometimes yer not quite yerself, sir—that is, not quite right in yer head, sir."
"That'll do," he said, angrily. "Go down below!"
The old man arose, saluted, and departed.
"Did he speak from his subconscious knowledge?" asked the engineer. "What do you think, doctor? Did Finnegan diagnose correctly?"
"Not at all," answered the surgeon, gravely. "The experiment has failed because of contrary auto-suggestion, and because of the presence of skepticism. An incredulous engineer, whose soul never rises above grate-surface and coal supply, will spoil any psychic investigation. Clarkson, does Finnegan ever take the wheel?"
"No, he's not a quartermaster."
"Can you stretch a point and put him there to-night?"
"Why, yes; but what for?"
"This: I've talked with many sailors in my time, and they all agree that when at the wheel on a dark night with no stars to range by—so that they have to steer by compass alone—they get into a sleepy, half-comatose condition, in which they calculate their pay, dream of home, hear voices, talk to people a thousand miles away, and, in fact, give every evidence to me of being in the subjective state. Yet they steer a straight course. The compass, brightly illuminated, hypnotizes them. It might hypnotize Finnegan. But there must be no engineers around." He glanced meaningly at the culprit, who left the party with a grin on his face.
"Go ahead with your experiment," he said, over his shoulder. "I prefer sleep."
"Finnegan's a good helmsman," said Mr. Clarkson. "I'll try him in the first watch. It'll be a dark night."
It was more than a dark night. There was fog; and the big steel battle-ship charged through it with a dozen lookouts posted about the decks and up aloft. Mr. Felton, officer of the deck from eight to twelve, stood near the bridge binnacle, peering into the blanket of darkness ahead. On the other side of the binnacle stood his assistant, a sublieutenant, whose chief business on watch was to look at the compass and say nothing. Though not a watch officer, Mr. Clarkson was on the bridge, as were the surgeon and chaplain; and Finnegan was alone in the pilot-house —where he had gone grumblingly—while the rightful incumbent of the trick, a quartermaster, kept watch beside the door on the bridge with orders to "stand by to relieve Finnegan at a second's notice.
"How long, doctor," asked the executive officer, as the four stood at the bridge rail, where Finnegan's face was easily visible through an opened window, "before he will be in condition?"
"Can't tell. Perhaps he won't be. But the experiment is worth trying. Mr. Parmlee is the man to work it. He has a soft, persuasive voice, and Finnegan wouldn't be too startled. You or I, Clarkson, would frighten him."
"What must I do?" asked the chaplain.
"Oh, after a while, when he has dimmed his eyes and brain by looking at the compass, sneak in and talk gently to him. Simply tell him that he doesn't like whisky—that he only thinks so, but is mistaken. Don't be too sudden; stand beside him for a while without speaking. Stand for half an hour, to throw him off his guard. Lecture him mildly but insistently."
"And you think," said the executive, "that such talk will pass the scrutiny of his brain and reach his subconsciousness?"
"Yes, provided that brain is off its guard. You must know that the only time that oral suggestion is possible is when one brain is going off duty and the other coming on. At this time they are in communication, and a statement delivered to one will be understood by the other. Auto-suggestion, too, is only available at this stage."
"What is auto-suggestion?" asked Mr. Felton.
"A suggestion made to yourself. You know that if you go to sleep humming a tune, you will wake up humming it in the morning."
"Yes," assented the young lieutenant. "And if I go to sleep desiring to waken at three, four, or five o'clock, I will invariably do so to the minute. Is it the same faculty?"
"The same. Any man can do it. And if Finnegan could determinedly say to himself just before going to sleep that he didn't like and didn't need whisky, he would wake in the morning with the thought—carried through the night by the subconscious mind—and be benefited while he slept by the reformatory work on the cells of the brain and nervous system of that believing subconsciousness."
"Then, why can't he be instructed and do it himself?" asked Mr. Clarkson.
"Because such an effort would require more will power than Finnegan possesses. With will power to suggest it to himself he would not need his subconscious help. He would simply quit. But Finnegan needs outside suggestion."
"Has this suggestion anything to do with mesmerism?" asked the chaplain.
"Yes and no. A mesmerist is always a hypnotist, but a hypnotist need not be a mesmerist. Mesmerism is still a mystery. A mesmerist is one possessing strong projective power, who exercises this power mainly by making passes before the face of the subject. It is as though a subtle emanation of some force left his finger-tips and affected the subject. A hypnotist is one who takes advantage of the voluntary surrender of the subject, and suggests, either by voice or strong mental effort. This last is the 'absent treatment' of Christian Science."
"Then there reafly is something in that," said Mr. Parmlee.
"Science, but no Christianity," answered the surgeon. Absent treatment is merely telepathy—a suggestion delivered by the operator to his own inner self, which sends it during sleep to the inner self of the patient."
"Wouldn't that work on Finnegan?" asked Mr. Clarkson.
"Certainly, if you've the time and patience to keep it up, night after night. Have you? I haven't."
"I have," said the chaplain, eagerly
"But, Mr. Parmlee," the surgeon, gently, "the job is too big for one to tackle alone. If you were a mesmerist, or even a strong, masterful character of a man, you might succeed, with everything favorable, in about five years. As it is, the whole Christian Science Church couldn't touch Finnegan without hypnotizing him; and that is what we're trying to do to-night."
"How does he look?" asked the executive, peering in at the old man. "Is he getting there?"
Finnegan was standing motionless beside the small wheel which, as a mere lever, admitted steam to the steering-engine below. Now and then he twirled it back and forth, with his eyes fixed on the compass in the binnacle. The group slowly sidled up to the pilot-house, and one—Mr. Clarkson—took a hurried look into the bridge binnacle. "Dead on the course, he whispered as he joined them. As they listened and looked they heard Finnegan crooning softly to himself, and suddenly the crooning became articulate:
"In the hallway—all day— Mary Ann, me darter.
She goes to slape in the childer's cot—
Mary Ann Kehoe—Kehoe-o-o-o-oe—KEHO-O-O-O-O-OE!
"No go," said the surgeon, stifling his laughter. "Come away and give him a chance. He's doing well."
They mustered again at the bridge-rail. An hour had hardly gone by, and there was still plenty of time for the experiment, provided that Finnegan would do his part. He was doing his work well; silent now, he stared steadily at the compass and steered so straight that the sublieutenant was impressed to the extent of speaking of it to Mr. Felton. But Mr. Felton did not respond with any great enthusiasm. He was officer of the deck; and when one is officer of the deck on a ten-thousand-ton battle-ship rushing through thick fog at eighteen knots there are things of more moment than the mere matter of a straight course. He had strained his eyes until the fog was yet mistier, and strained his ears for sounds of whistles and horns until to him the deep-toned hum of the engines was hardly audible. He had sent repeated injunctions to the lookouts to listen carefully—to report anything that sounded like fishermen's horns or steamers' whistles, and had sternly enjoined upon the bridge quartermaster to heave on the whistle rope at intervals of two minutes. But he had not slowed down; a collision is just as possible at half-speed as at full speed, and in spite of sentiment and law there are officers and captains who prefer to be on the ship that strikes the blow to being on the ship that receives it. Both the captain and Mr. Felton so preferred, in spite of the fact that nothing afloat but icebergs and battle-ships as heavy as this big ship could safely oppose her. There is logic in the theory. A ten-thousand-ton battle-ship, with a ram like a meat-axe, will cut through a steamship at half-speed as a knife cuts through cheese, and a fishing-craft caught on her bows would be lifted and thrown aside in two pieces. Yet, should either be the assailant, the result might be as disastrous. So the Argyll charged over the Georges Banks on her way to Halifax at full speed, with Finnegan steering straight and Mr. Felton and his lookouts anxious only for the safety of others. But the three idlers on the bridge, with fair confidence in Mr. Felton, were only anxious over Finnegan.
"You must enlighten me, surgeon," said Mr Parmlee, "a little further—as to what I am to do."
"Nothing," answered the surgeon, "for half an hour; then speak in a whisper. If he answers, wait longer, and try again. When he don't respond, begin your gentle lecture; but don't arouse him."
"I think I understand. Well, I will try. But tell me—would not this be the soul that I appeal to—Finnegan's immortal soul?"
"Some think so—some don't. I can't tell you. It is denied by those who call the ego the soul, for the ego is pure consciousness, and consciousness depends entirely upon the evidence of the senses."
"Altogether? Oh, no, doctor."
"Oh, yes, Mr. Parmlee. Just consider, now. Try and imagine yourself stone blind from birth—you never felt the sensation of light; stone deaf—you never heard a sound in your life; your sense of taste and smell entirely dead; also, your sensory nerves dead—so that you never felt anything that touched you—never felt heat and cold. You wouldn't know much, would you?"
"No, not a great deal.'
"You would know nothing. You would not be conscious that you were alive. There would be no ego. But, unless you died from lack of exercise, you could live and grow fat provided that food was placed in your stomach; and if the motor nerves were not also dead you could move about under the care of the subjective mind. This mind is the sixth sense so often spoken of—that possessed by the totally deaf and blind, who feel the presence of solid objects and feel the impact of sound."
"Yes," said Mr. Clarkson, "we've all heard of almost miraculous divination by these stricken people. Blind men really do find their way around."
"And cats come back—carrier-pigeons, too, and migrating birds. They travel for miles and days over country never cognized by any of the five senses, but—better sneak in now, Mr. Parmlee. Don't speak for half an hour."
The chaplain entered the pilot-house, where, in the dim light from the binnacle, the watchers saw him take a position on the other side of the small steering-wheel. Finnegan made no sign of recognition, and those without conversed awhile, then relapsed into silence. The minutes passed; the sublieutenant performed his duty of occasionally peeping at the bridge compass; Mr. Felton stood braced against the bridge-rail more statue-like than Finnegan. At each end of the long bridge was a lookout, as intent and immovable as the officer. The fog grew thicker, and the rumble of the engines seemed louder in consequence, while the two-minute blasts of the whistle burst through the clogged air like thunder-claps.
Suddenly Mr. Parmlee shot out of the pilot-house and joined his coreformers. He was palpably agitated.
"I cannot perform my part," he said, brokenly. "I waited, as you directed, and then whispered his name. And what do you think? He answered, in a whisper: 'Hush, sir! Don't talk to the man at the wheel. I know what ye want, sir. Here y' are. Take a nip sir. You were good to me once, Mr. Parmlee.' And he handed me a bottle. Here it is—almost empty. And there is whisky on his breath."
The surgeon chortled. "Well," he said at length, "toss it overboard, chaplain." Over went the bottle. "He's in good condition for good steering, so—best let him finish his trick. But he can't be hypnotized otherwise to-night. I'm going down."
He disappeared, followed by the chaplain; but the executive officer remained on the bridge, absorbed in meditation of a more or less gloomy nature. He occasionally looked at the compass, only to find no fault in the steering; but this did not absolve Finnegan, for when four bells struck, and the bridge quartermaster moved toward the pilot-house, the officer stopped him.
"For bringing whisky to the wheel," he said, sternly, through the opened window, "you shall steer two hours more."
"Very good, sir," whined the old fellow, submissively.
Mr. Clarkson resumed his position at the bridge-rail. The captain, with full confidence in his officers, was asleep; but his confidence was embodied solely in his executive officer, whose confidence in Finnegan's helmsmanship was not equaled by his confidence in Mr. Felton, who, though officer of the deck and a competent man, was young—very young to have charge on such a night. So Mr. Clarkson remained ex-officio in charge.
Five bells struck, then six and seven; and the last half-hour of the watch was drawing to an end when the sublieutenant peeped into the binnacle and startled them all with a yell.
"She's four points off her course!" he said, excitedly. "Starboard!—starboard hard! What's the matter with you? Are you asleep?"
Mr. Clarkson had been looking at Finnegan through the window a moment before. The old man had not changed his attitude. He still looked fixedly at the compass with eyes that were wide open, yet dead in the dimmed light. But now, as the sublieutenant's voice broke the silence, and the first lieutenant looked again, he saw Finnegan's face working convulsively, though his pose was as rigid as before and his eyes still dead in the dim light from the binnacle.
"Finnegan!" he shouted. "Wake up! Starboard your wheel and bring her back to the course! Jump in there, quartermaster, and take the wheel!"
"Yessir! yessir!" answered Finnegan, in the nervous tones of one suddenly awakened. Then the convulsions left his face and an anxious look came to it while he ground the wheel over. Then the quartermaster hurled him headlong against the door of the pilot-house and seized the spokes. "Coming back, sir!" he called, after a moment's scrutiny of the compass.
"Bring her back to the course!" said Mr. Clarkson, as he hovered over the bridge compass. But at the instant an uproar of shouts sounded from the various lookouts.
"Ship dead ahead, sir!" they called. "Port sir!'—she's crossing our bow to port!'—hard over, sir right under the bow, sir!—a steamship dead ahead sir!—port the wheel, sir—for God's sake!"
Mr. Clarkson took one look into the darkness and fog, then almost screamed the order to the quartermaster. "Steady as you go! Port!—hard a port! Hard over the wheel!" Then he jammed the engine-room telegraph to "Stop." The quartermaster spun the wheel, the rudder responded, and the ten thousand tons of steel shot past the stern of an equally large but flimsier ocean greyhound from whose multitude of windows and deadlights shone the light of a thousand electric bulbs—from whose decks even she sank into the fog, came the shouts of startled men and the screams of women and children.
Mr. Clarkson moved the telegraph to "Full speed, ahead" and again directed the quartermaster to return to the course; then he called Finnegan from the pilot-house. The old fellow came out, in the attitude of a dog about to be whipped, and stood cowering before the mighty first lieutenant.
"You were asleep," said Mr. Clarkson, sternly. "You were asleep at the wheel. What have you to say?"
"No, sir," answered Finnegan. "No sir. I swear before God, Mr. Clarkson, I wasn't asleep. I knew she was swingin' off; I saw the lubber's-point a-movin' over the sta'board, but I couldn't move my hands, sir. So help me God, sir, I couldn't move my hands. I was a dead man. I knew, but I couldn't move. I'm an old man, sir-I'm not the man I was. And you kept me four hours at the wheel, Mr. Clarkson, doing work that I don't get pay for. I'm not rated quartermaster, sir."
Mr. Felton was scanning the bridge compass, and apparently took no further interest in the case; but the sublieutenant, still younger, was much excited.
"There were fully two thousand human lives at stake," he said, excitedly. "And this man goes to sleep at the wheel. Oh, my God, what an escape. Hundreds would have been drowned."
"Yes," answered Mr. Clarkson. "If we had continued on our course, we would have rammed that steamship squarely amidships. And Finnegan goes to sleep at the wheel. Finnegan"—and the officers tone was very gentle, considering the enormity of his offense—"go down, ask the main-deck corporal to awaken the surgeon and send him to my room. Then turn in."
"Very good, sir—thanky, sir," said Finnegan. "And I won't do it again, sir—indeed, I won't. But I'm an old man, sir."
"Go down, Finnegan."
Finnegan saluted and departed.
An hour later, at the end of a long conversation between the surgeon and first lieutenant, the former said: "There is no doubt in my mind, Clarkson, that Finnegan put himself into the subjective state, and that his subconscious self took charge of him—that is, his subconscious mind had clairvoyant knowledge of the position of that steamship, out of sight in the fog, and simply prevented his muscles from acting until you commanded him to 'wake up.' That command wakened him, and the ignorant and very much limited objective brain took charge, and he moved the wheel. The sublieutenant's language, though intelligible enough to a wakened brain, meant nothing to the subconscious. Your command to 'wake up' did the business. It was a suggestion."
"But," said Mr. Clarkson, "admitting this, what put him into this subjective and clairvoyant state? Was it whisky or long gazing at the compass?"
The surgeon reached for a cigar, lit it, and puffed vigorously before replying.
"I do not know," he said. "Neither, I believe, does any man on earth. The captain, as you know, says that there is the index of an inscrutable Providence in all of Finnegan's actions. Let it go at that. I shall experiment no further with Finnegan."
"And I shall see that he never lacks for his inspiration," said the executive, abandonedly but firmly.
"As a medical man and a student of science," said the surgeon, "I ratify that. But we can expect no approval from Mr. Parmlee."
"No," said the executive, gloomily, nor any help, of action or advice, with a big steamship under the bow."