AD he been a cold-blooded creature with a heart of one ventricle, he might have been classed with the amphibia; for he was a vertebrate; he was born on land and had taken to the water—but only to the surface, for, though he could suspend respiration and even heart-action for a long period, a dive beneath would be fatal. Other points of difference between him and amphibians were his superheated, half-gaseous breath and blood; his twin hearts of complex structure that throbbed at "ten thousand indicated"; lungs, veins, and air-passages of cold-drawn, seamless tubing; nerves of copper, and hide of Harveyized steel several inches thick in places. His nose—of the same material and solid—was tons in weight, and his vertebral column longer, thicker, stiffer, and stronger than that of any known amphibian, living or extinct; so he was not an amphibian; neither was he any other kind of reptile, nor fish, nor bird, nor animal. He was superior to all, and, possessing a soul, was in close touch with humanity.
His consciousness had begun with a tickling sensation of broken glass and streaming wine on his nose, and the sound in his ears—or bow-sponsons, to be correct—of a receding musical voice which said: "I christen thee Vengeful." Then, in a quiver of nervous expectation and wonder, he had slid backward until the water received him, while thousands of small creatures all about him buzzed noisily. He had known his name when he heard it—it seemed that he had known it for ages—but he was still dazed and stupid, unable to "take notice," and immediately dropped into the healthy slumber of the newly born, during which slumber the mites of creatures tied him to a dock, scrubbed him, groomed him, and labored over him until his heart and lungs—in fact, his whole nervous and vascular systems—had developed to working condition. He had grown some formidable teeth and claws, and two pairs of one hundred thousand candle-power eyes which could see objects five miles away in the dark. He had acquired, too, a voracious appetite, and they poured a thousand tons of picked coal into his stomach, which he liked and began to digest. Then it was that he really lived and enjoyed life.
They called him a sea-going battle-ship of sixteen thousand tons displacement, and said that he was English; but he cared little for that. He remembered his name and knew his business, which was closely connected with his name. He purposed to attend to it; but in this regard was first confronted with the problem of the small creatures—the eight hundred busy, buzzing, scurrying parasites that lived upon him and within him. Naturally he had expected to be annoyed by them, but somehow—he could not understand how—they seemed to know the right thing to do at the right time, and even to anticipate his wishes. Was he hungry? They filled his stomach. Thirsty? They pumped fresh, sweet water into him. Hot and uncomfortable? They opened his ports and ventilating apertures, and cooled him with steady blasts of air. Every morning they attended to his bath, flushing and flooding all parts of him, rubbing him dry, and polishing his teeth and claws. When he had resolved upon a short venture to the open sea, he found them enthusiastically interested in the plan, calling it a "trial trip." And when, after a glorious battle with the mighty waves which tried their best to overwhelm him—a series of spurts ahead and backings astern, quick turns to the right and left under full speed, and a wild rush in a straight line in which he put forth his strength to the utmost, and quivered in every nerve and muscle, and roared and shrieked in his joy of might—he returned to his place in the harbor, fatigued and panting and hot with exertion, the joyous buzzing of the parasites equaled his mightiest roar. The buzzing was answered by other buzzing from other bugs on other ships in the harbor; and when it had subsided a little and become articulate, he heard them boasting: "Nineteen knots over a measured course—the largest and fastest battle-ship in the world." It would have been easy, in the furious rush into a head sea, to wash most of them off; but he had spared them, and now was glad. Whatever they were—whatever their part and mission, they were at least friendly, and did him good rather than harm. Later, when they had bathed him and cooled him down, and he was receiving the sober and more dignified congratulations of the ships, he heard them described as his "crew"—part of the congratulations referring to his good luck in getting a crew of such intelligence and efficiency.