CHAPTER EIGHT 



Hippocampus: A Monograph of the Sea-Horse 



I 



NE-TWO! . . . three-four! . . . 

 five-six! . . . seven-eight! . . . Mid- 

 night . . . 



With this succession of double 

 jstrokes coming from the bell of the 

 ship's clock on the laboratory wall, closes the 

 period of my personal contact with what is perhaps 

 the most unique creature whose friendship it has 

 been my fortune to cultivate. For at this hour, just 

 six months after the affair already made familiar 

 to the reader, in Chapter Six, the last of the hippo- 

 campids collected on that occasion expired. 



On my work-bench lies its stark form, still wet 

 from the water from which it was just retrieved. 

 As I contemplate its curious lines, the hissing sleet 

 can be heard outside, hurling itself in gusts against 

 the window-panes and the skylight overhead — in- 

 dicative plainly of a night contrasting singularly 



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