Morgan Robertson

“ Why did he fire that big gun?"
"Because he was drunk," growled the listening engineer, "You fellows will get the fantods if you don't look out. They're catching. I shall avoid you."
"Do so," answered the surgeon loftily. "You are only an engineer. God made you, it is true—and He made Finnegan."
Laughing as he went, the engineer left the bridge for the engine-room, where he was needed; and for similar reasons Mr. Clarkson left further immediate consideration of Finnegan to the surgeon, and devoted himself to the problem in hand, which promised to be serious. ”

“ Providence seems to choose Finnegan in some mysterious manner to— But it is bewildering. I cannot understand it. How does he know what to do?"
"You forget the subjective state," said the surgeon, "into which Finnegan is thrown when drunk. You forget the clairvoyant knowledge possessed by the subliminal self—that you call the immortal soul."
"Speak English," said the chief engineer. "Where did Finnegan get a soul?"
"Go down to your engines," answered Dr. Bryce severely. "Even they have souls—even engineers have souls, though they don't know it." ”

“ The officers uneasily paced the bridge.
"Battleships are bad gun-platforms," said Mr. Clarkson significantly to the surgeon, as for a moment their eyes met in passing.
"And big guns can't hit torpedo boats," answered the surgeon when they passed again. "And they really do make us top-heavy." ”

“ While the Argyll had nothing but gun-fire with which to withstand those swift and elusive enemies, and was left helpless by its elimination, they, on the contrary, weakly endowed in this form of aggressiveness, dominated the situation by possession of a weapon of war unaffected by the non-stability of gun-platforms—deadly mechanical fish that, undisturbed by wave motion or deflecting obstacle, maintain the original direction given them by the tubes from which they are propelled; that seek a twenty-foot depth and keep it while they travel at a thirty-knot rate ”

“ They peered down over the break of the superstructure at a gray-haired, emaciated old man, with a vacant smile on his face, being pursued around the after-turret by the master-at-arms.
"Out o' this, Finnegan," said the ship's chief of police as he caught him. Then he pushed him gently forward.
"Jes' wanted to tell the cap'n 'bout it," mumbled Finnegan. "Battleships are bad gun-platforms—he wants ter know it."
The first lieutenant and surgeon exchanged glances.
"What's on his mind?" asked the former. "Battleships are the best gun-platforms afloat." ”

“ But typhoons are short-lived. By ten o'clock a rising barometer brought comfort to the distracted ship's company, and the wind hauled further and moderated. But there was little abatement of the bewildering cross sea, and there was an almost continuous succession of rain squalls bombarding the ship that kept fully a third of the horizon hidden at all times. ”

“ Then it was an auto-suggestion, delivered to his subliminal self when the danger was real—and it persisted. He spoke last evening of bad gun-platforms, which is a thought connected with top-heaviness; and of guns shooting far, but being unable to hit torpedo boats—equally connected. Auto-suggestion and association of ideas, gentlemen, that is all. ”

“ The latter fact was attested by the appearance of the old man himself in the turret, where the executive officer and the gun crews were perspiring over the work. Both guns had been loaded with solid shot, and were to be fired at extreme elevation.
"Good gunsh," remarked Finnegan, as the men took positions for firing. "Good gunsh—shoot a long way—but can't hit torpedo boats."
"Yes," answered Mr. Clarkson, eying him severely. "Good guns—shoot ten miles—over the horizon. Get out of here." ”