"I suppose you will be getting away pretty soon, now Full term is over, Professor," said a person not in the story to
the Professor of Ontography, soon after they had sat down next to each other at a feast in the hospitable hall of St James's
The Professor was young, neat, and precise in speech. "Yes," he said;
"my friends have been making me take up golf this term, and I mean to go to the East Coast - in point of fact to Burnstow
- (I dare say you know it) for a week or ten days, to improve my game. I hope to get off tomorrow."
"Oh, Parkins," said his neighbour on the other side, "if you are going
to Burnstow, I wish you would look at the site of the Templars" preceptory, and let me know if you think it would be any good
to have a dig there in the summer."
It was, as you might suppose, a person of antiquarian pursuits who said
this, but, since he merely appears in this prologue, there is no need to give his entitlements.
"Certainly," said Parkins, the Professor: "if you will describe to me
whereabouts the site is, I will do my best to give you an idea of the lie of the land when I get back; or I could write to
you about it, if you would tell me where you are likely to be."
"Don't trouble to do that, thanks. It's only that I'm thinking of taking
my family in that direction in the Long, and it occurred to me that, as very few of the English preceptories have ever been
properly planned, I might have an opportunity of doing something useful on offdays."
The Professor rather sniffed at the idea that planning out a preceptory
could be described as useful. His neighbour continued:
"The site - I doubt if there is anything showing above ground - must be
down quite close to the beach now. The sea has encroached tremendously, as you know, all along that bit of coast. I should
think, from the map, that it must be about three-quarters of a mile from the Globe Inn, at the north end of the town. Where
are you going to stay?"
"Well, at the Globe Inn, as a matter of fact," said Parkins; "I have engaged
a room there. I couldn't get in anywhere else; most of the lodging-houses are shut up in winter, it seems; and, as it is,
they tell me that the only room of any size I can have is really a double-bedded one, and that they haven't a corner in which
to store the other bed, and so on. But I must have a fairly large room, for I am taking some books down, and mean to do a
bit of work; and though I don't quite fancy having an empty bed - not to speak of two - in what I may call for the time being
my study, I suppose I can manage to rough it for the short time I shall be there."
"Do you call having an extra bed in your room roughing it. Parkins?" said
a bluff person opposite. "Look here, I shall come down and occupy it for a bit; it"ll be company for you."
The Professor quivered, but managed to laugh in a courteous manner.
"By all means, Rogers; there's nothing I should like better. But I'm afraid
you would find it rather dull; you don't play golf, do you?" "No, thank Heaven!" said rude Mr Rogers. "Well, you see, when
I'm not writing I shall most likely be out on the links, and that, as I say, would be rather dull for you. I'm afraid."
"Oh, I don't know! There's certain to be somebody I know in the place;
but, of course, if you don't want me, speak the word. Parkins; I shan't be offended. Truth, as you always tell us, is never
Parkins was, indeed, scrupulously polite and strictly truthful. It is
to be feared that Mr Rogers sometimes practised upon his knowledge of these characteristics. In Parkins's breast there was
a conflict now raging, which for a moment or two did not allow him to answer. That interval being over, he said:
"Well, if you want the exact truth, Rogers, I was considering whether
the room I speak of would really be large enough to accommodate us both comfortably; and also whether (mind, I shouldn't have
said this if you hadn't pressed me) you would not constitute something in the nature of a hindrance to my work." Rogers laughed
"Well done. Parkins!" he said. "It's all right. I promise not to interrupt
your work; don't you disturb yourself about that. No, I won't come if you don't want me; but I thought I should do so nicely
to keep the ghosts off." Here he might have been seen to wink and to nudge his next neighbour. Parkins might also have been
seen to become pink. "I beg pardon. Parkins," Rogers continued; "I oughtn't to have said that. I forgot you didn't like levity
on these topics."
"Well," Parkins said, 'as you have mentioned the matter, I freely own
that I do not like careless talk about what you call ghosts. A man in my position," he went on, raising his voice a little,
"cannot, I find, be too careful about appearing to sanction the current beliefs on such subjects. As you know, Rogers, or
as you ought to know; for I think I have never concealed my views - "
"No, you certainly have not, old man," put in Rogers sotto voce.
" - I hold that any semblance, any appearance of concession to the view
that such things might exist is equivalent to a renunciation of all that I hold most sacred. But I'm afraid I have not succeeded
in securing your attention."
"Your undivided attention, was what Dr Blimber actually said," Rogers
interrupted, with every appearance of an earnest desire for accuracy. "But I beg your pardon. Parkins; I'm stopping you."
"No, not at all," said Parkins. "I don't remember Blimber; perhaps he
was before my time. But I needn't go on. I'm sure you know what I mean."
"Yes, yes," said Rogers, rather hastily - "just so. We'll go into it fully
at Burnstow, or somewhere."
In repeating the above dialogue I have tried to give the impression which
it made on me, that Parkins was something of an old woman - rather hen-like, perhaps, in his little ways; totally destitute,
alas! of the sense of humour, but at the same time dauntless and sincere in his convictions, and a man deserving of the greatest
respect. Whether or not the reader has gathered so much, that was the character which Parkins had.
On the following day Parkins did, as he had hoped, succeed in getting
away from his college, and in arriving at Burnstow. He was made welcome at the Globe Inn, was safely installed in the large
double-bedded room of which we have heard, and was able before retiring to rest to arrange his materials for work in apple-pie
order upon a commodious table which occupied the outer end of the room, and was surrounded on three sides by windows looking
out seaward; that is to say, the central window looked straight out to sea, and those on the left and right commanded prospects
along the shore to the north and south respectively. On the south you saw the village of Burnstow. On the north no houses
were to be seen, but only the beach and the low cliff backing it. Immediately in front was a strip - not considerable - of
rough grass, dotted with old anchors, capstans, and so forth; then a broad path; then the beach. Whatever may have been the
original distance between the Globe Inn and the sea, not more than sixty yards now separated them.
The rest of the population of the inn was, of course, a golfing one, and
included few elements that call for a special description. The most conspicuous figure was, perhaps, that of an ancien militaire,
secretary of a London club, and possessed of a voice of incredible strength, and of views of a pronouncedly Protestant type.
These were apt to find utterance after his attendance upon the ministrations of the Vicar, an estimable man with inclinations
towards a picturesque ritual, which he gallantly kept down as far as he could out of deference to East Anglian tradition.
Professor Parkins, one of whose principal characteristics was pluck, spent
the greater part of the day following his arrival at Burnstow in what he had called improving his game, in company with this
Colonel Wilson: and during the afternoon - whether the process of improvement were to blame or not, I am not sure - the Colonel's
demeanour assumed a colouring so lurid that even Parkins jibbed at the thought of walking home with him from the links. He
determined, after a short and furtive look at that bristling moustache and those incarnadined features, that it would be wiser
to allow the influences of tea and tobacco to do what they could with the Colonel before the dinner-hour should render a meeting
"I might walk home tonight along the beach," he reflected - "yes, and
take a look - there will be light enough for that - at the ruins of which Disney was talking. I don't exactly know where they
are, by the way; but I expect I can hardly help stumbling on them." This he accomplished, I may say, in the most literal sense,
for in picking his way from the links to the shingle beach his foot caught, partly in a gorse-root and partly in a biggish
stone, and over he went. When he got up and surveyed his surroundings, he found himself in a patch of somewhat broken ground
covered with small depressions and mounds. These latter, when he came to examine them, proved to be simply masses of flints
embedded in mortar and grown over with turf. He must, he quite rightly concluded, be on the site of the preceptory he had
promised to look at. It seemed not unlikely to reward the spade of the explorer; enough of the foundations was probably left
at no great depth to throw a good deal of light on the general plan. He remembered vaguely that the Templars, to whom this
site had belonged, were in the habit of building round churches, and he thought a particular series of the humps or mounds
near him did appear to be arranged in something of a circular form. Few people can resist the temptation to try a little amateur
research in a department quite outside their own, if only for the satisfaction of showing how successful they would have been
had they only taken it up seriously. Our Professor, however, if he felt something of this mean desire, was also truly anxious
to oblige Mr Disney. So he paced with care the circular area he had noticed, and wrote down its rough dimensions in his pocket-book.
Then he proceeded to examine an oblong eminence which lay east of the centre of the circle, and seemed to his thinking likely
to be the base of a platform or altar. At one end of it, the northern, a patch of the turf was gone - removed by some boy
or other creature ferae naturae. It might, he thought, be as well to probe the soil here for evidences of masonry, and he
took out his knife and began scraping away the earth. And now followed another little discovery: a portion of soil fell inward
as he scraped, and disclosed a small cavity. He lighted one match after another to help him to see of what nature the hole
was, but the wind was too strong for them all. By tapping and scratching the sides with his knife, however, he was able to
make out that it must be an artificial hole in masonry. It was rectangular, and the sides, top, and bottom, if not actually
plastered, were smooth and regular. Of course it was empty. No! As he withdrew the knife he heard a metallic clink, and when
he introduced his hand it met with a cylindrical object lying on the floor of the hole. Naturally enough, he picked it up,
and when he brought it into the light, now fast fading, he could see that it, too, was of man's making - a metal tube about
four inches long, and evidently of some considerable age.
By the time Parkins had made sure that there was nothing else in this
odd receptacle, it was too late and too dark for him to think of undertaking any further search. What he had done had proved
so unexpectedly interesting that he determined to sacrifice a little more of the daylight on the morrow to archaeology. The
object which he now had safe in his pocket was bound to be of some slight value at least, he felt sure.
Bleak and solemn was the view on which he took a last look before starting
homeward. A faint yellow light in the west showed the links, on which a few figures moving towards the club-house were still
visible, the squat martello tower, the lights of Aldsey village, the pale ribbon of sands intersected at intervals by black
wooden groynes, the dim and murmuring sea. The wind was bitter from the north, but was at his back when he set out for the
Globe. He quickly rattled and clashed through the shingle and gained the sand, upon which, but for the groynes which had to
be got over every few yards, the going was both good and quiet. One last look behind, to measure the distance he had made
since leaving the ruined Templars' church, showed him a prospect of company on his walk, in the shape of a rather indistinct
personage, who seemed to be making great efforts to catch up with him, but made little, if any, progress. I mean that there
was an appearance of running about his movements, but that the distance between him and Parkins did not seem materially to
lessen. So, at least, Parkins thought, and decided that he almost certainly did not know him, and that it would be absurd
to wait until he came up. For all that, company, he began to think, would really be very welcome on that lonely shore, if
only you could choose your companion. In his unenlightened days he had read of meetings in such places which even now would
hardly bear thinking of. He went on thinking of them, however, until he reached home, and particularly of one which catches
most peoples fancy at some time of their childhood. "Now I saw in my dream that Christian had gone but a very little way when
he saw a foul fiend coming over the field to meet him." "What should I do now," he thought, "if I looked back and caught sight
of a black figure sharply defined against the yellow sky, and saw that it had horns and wings? I wonder whether I should stand
or run for it. Luckily, the gentleman behind is not of that kind, and he seems to be about as far off now as when I saw him
first. Well, at this rate he won't get his dinner as soon as I shall; and, dear me! it's within a quarter of an hour of the
time now. I must run!"
Parkins had, in fact, very little time for dressing. When he met the Colonel
at dinner. Peace - or as much of her as that gentleman could manage - reigned once more in the military bosom; nor was she
put to flight in the hours of bridge that followed dinner, for Parkins was a more than respectable player. When, therefore,
he retired towards twelve o'clock, he felt that he had spent his evening in quite a satisfactory way, and that, even for so
long as a fortnight or three weeks, life at the Globe would be supportable under similar conditions - 'especially," thought
he, "if I go on improving my game."
As he went along the passages he met the boots of the Globe, who stopped
and said: "Beg your pardon, sir, but as I was a-brushing your coat just now there was somethink fell out of the pocket. I
put it on your chest of drawers, sir, in your room, sir - a piece of a pipe or somethink of that, sir. Thank you, sir. You"ll
find it on your chest of drawers, sir - yes, sir. Good night, sir."
The speech served to remind Parkins of his little discovery of that afternoon.
It was with some considerable curiosity that he turned it over by the light of his candles. It was of bronze, he now saw,
and was shaped very much after the manner of the modern dog-whistle; in fact it was - yes, certainly it was - actually no
more nor less than a whistle. He put it to his lips, but it was quite full of a fine, caked-up sand or earth, which would
not yield to knocking, but must be loosened with a knife. Tidy as ever in his habits. Parkins cleared out the earth on to
a piece of paper, and took the latter to the window to empty it out. The night was clear and bright, as he saw when he had
opened the casement, and he stopped for an instant to look at the sea and note a belated wanderer stationed on the shore in
front of the inn. Then he shut the window, a little surprised at the late hours people kept at Burnstow, and took his whistle
to the light again. Why, surely there were marks on it, and not merely marks, but letters! A very little rubbing rendered
the deeply-cut inscription quite legible, but the Professor had to confess, after some earnest thought, that the meaning of
it was as obscure to him as the writing on the wall to Belshazzar. There were legends both on the front and on the back of
the whistle. The one read thus:
"I ought to be able to make it out," he thought; "but I suppose I am a little rusty in my Latin. When I come to think
of it, I don't believe I even know the word for a whistle. The long one does seem simple enough. It ought to mean, "Who is
this who is coming?" Well, the best way to find out is evidently to whistle for him."
He blew tentatively and stopped suddenly, startled and yet pleased at
the note he had elicited. It had a quality of infinite distance in it, and, soft as it was, he somehow felt it must be audible
for miles round. It was a sound, too, that seemed to have the power (which many scents possess) of forming pictures in the
brain. He saw quite clearly for a moment a vision of a wide, dark expanse at night, with a fresh wind blowing and in the midst
a lonely figure - how employed, he could not tell. Perhaps he would have seen more had not the picture been broken by the
sudden surge of a gust of wind against his casement, so sudden that it made him look up, just in time to see the white glint
of a sea-bird's wing somewhere outside the dark panes.
The sound of the whistle had so fascinated him that he could not help
trying it once more, this time more boldly. The note was little, if at all, louder than before, and repetition broke the illusion
- no picture followed, as he had half hoped it might. "But what is this? Goodness! what force the wind can get up in a few
minutes! What a tremendous gust! There! I knew that window-fastening was no use! Ah! I thought so - both candles out. It's
enough to tear the room to pieces."
The first thing was to get the window shut. While you might count twenty
Parkins was struggling with the small casement, and felt almost as if he were pushing back a sturdy burglar, so strong was
the pressure. It slackened all at once, and the window banged to and latched itself. Now to relight the candles and see what
damage, if any, had been done. No, nothing seemed amiss; no glass even was broken in the casement. But the noise had evidently
roused at least one member of the household: the Colonel was to be heard slumping in his stockinged feet on the floor above,
Quickly as it had risen, the wind did not fall at once. On it went, moaning
and rushing past the house, at times rising to a cry so desolate that, as Parkins disinterestedly said, it might have made
fanciful people feel quite uncomfortable; even the unimaginative, he thought after a quarter of an hour, might be happier
Whether it was the wind, or the excitement of golf, or of the researches
in the preceptory that kept Parkins awake, he was not sure. Awake he remained, in any case, long enough to fancy (as I am
afraid I often do myself under such conditions) that he was the victim of all manner of fatal disorders: he would lie counting
the beats of his heart, convinced that it was going to stop work every moment, and would entertain grave suspicions of his
lungs, brain, liver, etc. - suspicions which he was sure would be dispelled by the return of daylight, but which until then
refused to be put aside. He found a little vicarious comfort in the idea that someone else was in the same boat. A near neighbour
(in the darkness it was not easy to tell his direction) was tossing and rustling in his bed, too.
The next stage was that Parkins shut his eyes and determined to give sleep
every chance. Here again overexcitement asserted itself in another form - that of making pictures. Experto crede, pictures
do come to the closed eyes of one trying to sleep, and are often so little to his taste that he must open his eyes and disperse
Parkins's experience on this occasion was a very distressing one. He found
that the picture which presented itself to him was continuous. When he opened his eyes, of course, it went; but when he shut
them once more it framed itself afresh, and acted itself out again, neither quicker nor slower than before. What he saw was
this: A long stretch of shore - shingle edged by sand, and intersected at short intervals with black groynes running down
to the water - a scene, in fact, so like that of his afternoon's walk that, in the absence of any landmark, it could not be
distinguished therefrom. The light was obscure, conveying an impression of gathering storm, late winter evening, and slight
cold rain. On this bleak stage at first no actor was visible. Then, in the distance, a bobbing black object appeared; a moment
more, and it was a man running, jumping, clambering over the groynes, and every few seconds looking eagerly back. The nearer
he came the more obvious it was that he was not only anxious, but even terribly frightened, though his face was not to be
distinguished. He was, moreover, almost at the end of his strength. On he came; each successive obstacle seemed to cause him
more difficulty than the last. "Will he get over this next one?" thought Parkins; "it seems a little higher than the others."
Yes; half-climbing, half throwing himself, he did get over, and fell all in a heap on the other side (the side nearest to
the spectator). There, as if really unable to get up again, he remained crouching under the groyne, looking up in an attitude
of painful anxiety.
So far no cause whatever for the fear of the runner had been shown; but
now there began to be seen, far up the shore, a little flicker of something light-coloured moving to and fro with great swiftness
and irregularity. Rapidly growing larger, it, too, declared itself as a figure in pale, fluttering draperies, ill-defined.
There was something about its motion which made Parkins very unwilling to see it at close quarters. It would stop, raise arms,
bow itself toward the sand, then run stooping across the beach to the water-edge and back again; and then, rising upright,
once more continue its course forward at a speed that was startling and terrifying. The moment came when the pursuer was hovering
about from left to right only a few yards beyond the groyne where the runner lay in hiding. After two or three ineffectual
castings hither and thither it came to a stop, stood upright, with arms raised high, and then darted straight forward towards
It was at this point that Parkins always failed in his resolution to keep
his eyes shut. With many misgivings as to incipient failure of eyesight, over-worked brain, excessive smoking, and so on,
he finally resigned himself to light his candle, get out a book, and pass the night waking, rather than be tormented by this
persistent panorama, which he saw clearly enough could only be a morbid reflection of his walk and his thoughts on that very
The scraping of match on box and the glare of light must have startled
some creatures of the night - rats or what not - which he heard scurry across the floor from the side of his bed with much
rustling. Dear, dear! the match is out! Fool that it is! But the second one burnt better, and a candle and book were duly
procured, over which Parkins pored till sleep of a wholesome kind came upon him, and that in no long space. For about the
first time in his orderly and prudent life he forgot to blow out the candle, and when he was called next morning at eight
there was still a flicker in the socket and a sad mess of guttered grease on the top of the little table.
After breakfast he was in his room, putting the finishing touches to his
golfing costume - fortune had again allotted the Colonel to him for a partner - when one of the maids came in.
"Oh, if you please," she said, "would you like any extra blankets on your
'ah! thank you," said Parkins. "Yes, I think I should like one. It seems
likely to turn rather colder."
In a very short time the maid was back with the blanket.
"Which bed should I put it on, sir?" she asked. "What? Why, that one -
the one I slept in last night," he said, pointing to it.
"Oh yes! I beg your pardon, sir, but you seemed to have tried both of
em; leastways, we had to make 'em both up this morning."
"Really? How very absurd!" said Parkins. "I certainly never touched the
other, except to lay some things on it. Did it actually seem to have been slept in?"
"Oh, yes, sir!" said the maid. "Why, all the things was crumpled and throwed
about all ways, if you'll excuse me, sir - quite as if anyone 'adn't passed but a very poor night, sir."
"Dear me," said Parkins. "Well, I may have disordered it more than I thought
when I unpacked my things. I'm very sorry to have given you the extra trouble. I'm sure. I expect a friend of mine soon, by
the way - a gentleman from Cambridge - to come and occupy it for a night or two. That will be all right, I suppose, won't
"Oh yes, to be sure, sir. Thank you, sir. It's no trouble. I'm sure,"
said the maid, and departed to giggle with her colleagues.
Parkins set forth, with a stern determination to improve his game.
I am glad to be able to report that he succeeded so far in this enterprise
that the Colonel, who had been rather repining at the prospect of a second day's play in his company, became quite chatty
as the morning advanced; and his voice boomed out over the flats, as certain also of our own minor poets have said, "like
some great bourdon in a minster tower".
"Extraordinary wind, that, we had last night," he said. "In my old home
we should have said someone had been whistling for it."
"Should you, indeed!" said Parkins, "Is there a superstition of that kind
still current in your part of the country?"
"I don't know about superstition," said the Colonel. "They believe in
it all over Denmark and Norway, as well as on the Yorkshire coast; and my experience is, mind you, that there's generally
something at the bottom of what these country-folk hold to, and have held to for generations. But it's your drive" (or whatever
it might have been: the golfing reader will have to imagine appropriate digressions at the proper intervals).
When conversation was resumed. Parkins said, with a slight hesitancy:
"apropos of what you were saying just now. Colonel, I think I ought to
tell you that my own views on such subjects are very strong. I am, in fact, a convinced disbeliever in what is called the
"What!" said the Colonel, "do you mean to tell me you don't believe in
second-sight, or ghosts, or anything of that kind?"
"In nothing whatever of that kind," returned Parkins firmly.
"Well," said the Colonel, "but it appears to me at that rate, sir, that
you must be little better than a Sadducee."
Parkins was on the point of answering that, in his opinion, the Sadducees
were the most sensible persons he had ever read of in the Old Testament; but, feeling some doubt as to whether much mention
of them was to be found in that work, he preferred to laugh the accusation off.
"Perhaps I am," he said; "but - Here, give me my cleek, boy! - Excuse
me one moment. Colonel." A short interval. "Now, as to whistling for the wind, let me give you my theory about it. The laws
which govern winds are really not at all perfectly known - to fisher-folk and such, of course, not known at all. A man or
woman of eccentric habits, perhaps, or a stranger, is seen repeatedly on the beach at some unusual hour, and is heard whistling.
Soon afterwards a violent wind rises; a man who could read the sky perfectly or who possessed a barometer could have foretold
that it would. The simple people of a fishing-village have no barometers, and only a few rough rules for prophesying weather.
What more natural than that the eccentric personage I postulated should be regarded as having raised the wind, or that he
or she should clutch eagerly at the reputation of being able to do so? Now, take last night's wind: as it happens, I myself
was whistling. I blew a whistle twice, and the wind seemed to come absolutely in answer to my call. If anyone had seen me
The audience had been a little restive under this harangue, and Parkins
had, I fear, fallen somewhat into the tone of a lecturer; but at the last sentence the Colonel stopped.
"Whistling, were you?" he said. 'and what sort of whistle did you use?
Play this stroke first." Interval.
"About that whistle you were asking. Colonel. It's rather a curious one.
I have it in my - No; I see I've left in it my room. As a matter of fact, I found it yesterday."
And then Parkins narrated the manner of his discovery of the whistle,
upon hearing which the Colonel grunted, and opined that, in Parkins's place, he should himself be careful about using a thing
that had belonged to a set of Papists, of whom, speaking generally, it might be affirmed that you never knew what they might
not have been up to. From this topic he diverged to the enormities of the Vicar, who had given notice on the previous Sunday
that Friday would be the Feast of St Thomas the Apostle, and that there would be service at eleven o'clock in the church.
This and other similar proceedings constituted in the Colonel's view a strong presumption that the Vicar was a concealed Papist,
if not a Jesuit; and Parkins, who could not very readily follow the Colonel in this region, did not disagree with him. In
fact, they got on so well together in the morning that there was no talk on either side of their separating after lunch.
Both continued to play well during the afternoon, or, at least, well enough
to make them forget everything else until the light began to fail them. Not until then did Parkins remember that he had meant
to do some more investigating at the preceptory; but it was of no great importance, he reflected. One day was as good as another;
he might as well go home with the Colonel.
As they turned the corner of the house, the Colonel was almost knocked
down by a boy who rushed into him at the very top of his speed, and then, instead of running away, remained hanging on to
him and panting. The first words of the warrior were naturally those of reproof and objurgation, but he very quickly discerned
that the boy was almost speechless with fright. Inquiries were useless at first. When the boy got his breath he began to howl,
and still clung to the Colonel's legs. He was at last detached, but continued to howl.
"What in the world is the matter with you? What have you been up to? What
have you seen?" said the two men.
"Ow, I seen it wive at me out of the winder," wailed the boy, "and I don't
"What window?" said the irritated Colonel. "Come, pull yourself together,
my boy." "The front winder it was, at the 'otel," said the boy. At this point Parkins was in favour of sending the boy home,
but the Colonel refused; he wanted to get to the bottom of it, he said; it was most dangerous to give a boy such a fright
as this one had had, and if it turned out that people had been playing jokes, they should suffer for it in some way. And by
a series of questions he made out this story. The boy had been playing about on the grass in front of the Globe with some
others; then they had gone home to their teas, and he was just going, when he happened to look up at the front winder and
see it a-wiving at him. It seemed to be a figure of some sort, in white as far as he knew - couldn't see its face; but it
wived at him, and it warn't a right thing - not to say not a right person. Was there a light in the room? No, he didn't think
to look if there was a light. Which was the window? Was it the top one or the second one? The seckind one it was - the big
winder what got two little uns at the sides.
"Very well, my boy," said the Colonel, after a few more questions. "You
run away home now. I expect it was some person trying to give you a start. Another time, like a brave English boy, you just
throw a stone - well, no, not that exactly, but you go and speak to the waiter, or to Mr Simpson, the landlord, and - yes
- and say that I advised you to do so."
The boy's face expressed some of the doubt he felt as to the likelihood
of Mr Simpson's lending a favourable ear to his complaint, but the Colonel did not appear to perceive this, and went on:
"And here's a sixpence - no, I see it's a shilling - and you be off home,
and don't think any more about it."
The youth hurried off with agitated thanks, and the Colonel and Parkins
went round to the front of the Globe and reconnoitred. There was only one window answering to the description they had been
"Well, that's curious," said Parkins; "it's evidently my window the lad
was talking about. Will you come up for a moment. Colonel Wilson? We ought to be able to see if anyone has been taking liberties
in my room."
They were soon in the passage, and Parkins made as if to open the door.
Then he stopped and felt in his pockets.
"This is more serious than I thought," was his next remark. "I remember
now that before I started this morning I locked the door. It is locked now, and, what is more, here is the key." And he held
it up. "Now," he went on, "if the servants are in the habit of going into one's room during the day when one is away, I can
only say that - well, that I don't approve of it at all." Conscious of a somewhat weak climax, he busied himself in opening
the door (which was indeed locked) and in lighting candles. "No," he said, "nothing seems disturbed." 'except your bed," put
in the Colonel. 'excuse me, that isn't my bed," said Parkins. "I don't use that one. But it does look as if someone has been
playing tricks with it."
It certainly did: the clothes were bundled up and twisted together in
a most tortuous confusion. Parkins pondered. "That must be it," he said at last: "I disordered the clothes last night in unpacking,
and they haven't made it since. Perhaps they came in to make it, and that boy saw them through the window; and then they were
called away and locked the door after them. Yes, I think that must be it."
"Well, ring and ask," said the Colonel, and this appealed to Parkins as
The maid appeared, and, to make a long story short, deposed that she had
made the bed in the morning when the gentleman was in the room, and hadn't been there since. No, she hadn't no other key.
Mr Simpson he kep' the keys; he'd be able to tell the gentleman if anyone had been up.
This was a puzzle. Investigation showed that nothing of value had been
taken, and Parkins remembered the disposition of the small objects on tables and so forth well enough to be pretty sure that
no pranks had been played with them. Mr and Mrs Simpson furthermore agreed that neither of them had given the duplicate key
of the room to any person whatever during the day. Nor could Parkins, fair-minded man as he was, detect anything in the demeanour
of master, mistress, or maid that indicated guilt. He was much more inclined to think that the boy had been imposing on the
The latter was unwontedly silent and pensive at dinner and throughout
the evening. When he bade good night to Parkins, he murmured in a gruff undertone: "You know where I am if you want me during
the night." "Why, yes, thank you. Colonel Wilson, I think I do; but there isn't much prospect of my disturbing you, I hope.
By the way," he added, "did I show you that old whistle I spoke of? I think not. Well, here it is."
The Colonel turned it over gingerly in the light of the candle.
"Can you make anything of the inscription?" asked Parkins, as he took
it back. "No, not in this light. What do you mean to do with it?"
"Oh, well, when I get back to Cambridge I shall submit it to some of the
archaeologists there, and see what they think of it; and very likely, if they consider it worth having, I may present it to
one of the museums."
""M!" said the Colonel. "Well, you may be right. All I know is that, if
it were mine, I should chuck it straight into the sea. It's no use talking. I'm well aware, but I expect that with you it's
a case of live and learn. I hope so. I'm sure, and I wish you a good night."
He turned away, leaving Parkins in act to speak at the bottom of the stair,
and soon each was in his own bedroom.
By some unfortunate accident, there were neither blinds nor curtains to
the windows of the Professor's room. The previous night he had thought little of this, but tonight there seemed every prospect
of a bright moon rising to shine directly on his bed, and probably wake him later on. When he noticed this he was a good deal
annoyed, but, with an ingenuity which I can only envy, he succeeded in rigging up, with the help of a railway-rug, some safety-pins,
and a stick and umbrella, a screen which, if it only held together, would completely keep the moonlight off his bed. And shortly
afterwards he was comfortably in that bed. When he had read a somewhat solid work long enough to produce a decided wish for
sleep, he cast a drowsy glance round the room, blew out the candle, and fell back upon the pillow.
He must have slept soundly for an hour or more, when a sudden clatter
shook him up in a most unwelcome manner. In a moment he realized what had happened: his carefully-constructed screen had given
way, and a very bright frosty moon was shining directly on his face. This was highly annoying. Could he possibly get up and
reconstruct the screen? or could he manage to sleep if he did not?
For some minutes he lay and pondered over the possibilities; then he turned
over sharply, and with all his eyes open lay breathlessly listening. There had been a movement, he was sure, in the empty
bed on the opposite side of the room. Tomorrow he would have it moved, for there must be rats or something playing about in
it. It was quiet now. No! the commotion began again. There was a rustling and shaking: surely more than any rat could cause.
I can figure to myself something of the Professor's bewilderment and horror,
for I have in a dream thirty years back seen the same thing happen; but the reader will hardly, perhaps, imagine how dreadful
it was to him to see a figure suddenly sit up in what he had known was an empty bed. He was out of his own bed in one bound,
and made a dash towards the window, where lay his only weapon, the stick with which he had propped his screen. This was, as
it turned out, the worst thing he could have done, because the personage in the empty bed, with a sudden smooth motion, slipped
from the bed and took up a position, with outspread arms, between the two beds, and in front of the door. Parkins watched
it in a horrid perplexity. Somehow, the idea of getting past it and escaping through the door was intolerable to him; he could
not have borne - he didn't know why - to touch it; and as for its touching him, he would sooner dash himself through the window
than have that happen. It stood for the moment in a band of dark shadow, and he had not seen what its face was like. Now it
began to move, in a stooping posture, and all at once the spectator realized, with some horror and some relief, that it must
be blind, for it seemed to feel about it with its muffled arms in a groping and random fashion. Turning half away from him,
it became suddenly conscious of the bed he had just left, and darted towards it, and bent over and felt the pillows in a way
which made Parkins shudder as he had never in his life thought it possible. In a very few moments it seemed to know that the
bed was empty, and then, moving forward into the area of light and facing the window, it showed for the first time what manner
of thing it was.
Parkins, who very much dislikes being questioned about it, did once describe
something of it in my hearing, and I gathered that what he chiefly remembers about it is a horrible, an intensely horrible,
face of crumbled linen. What expression he read upon it he could not or would not tell, but that the fear of it went nigh
to maddening him is certain.
But he was not at leisure to watch it for long. With formidable quickness
it moved into the middle of the room, and, as it groped and waved, one corner of its draperies swept across Parkins's face.
He could not - though he knew how perilous a sound was - he could not keep back a cry of disgust, and this gave the searcher
an instant clue. It leapt towards him upon the instant, and the next moment he was half-way through the window backwards,
uttering cry upon cry at the utmost pitch of his voice, and the linen face was thrust close into his own. At this, almost
the last possible second, deliverance came, as you will have guessed: the Colonel burst the door open, and was just in time
to see the dreadful group at the window. When he reached the figures only one was left. Parkins sank forward into the room
in a faint, and before him on the floor lay a tumbled heap of bedclothes.
Colonel Wilson asked no questions, but busied himself in keeping everyone
else out of the room and in getting Parkins back to his bed; and himself, wrapped in a rug, occupied the other bed for the
rest of the night. Early on the next day Rogers arrived, more welcome than he would have been a day before, and the three
of them held a very long consultation in the Professor's room. At the end of it the Colonel left the hotel door carrying a
small object between his finger and thumb, which he cast as far into the sea as a very brawny arm could send it. Later on
the smoke of a burning ascended from the back premises of the Globe.
Exactly what explanation was patched up for the staff and visitors at
the hotel I must confess I do not recollect. The Professor was somehow cleared of the ready suspicion of delirium tremens,
and the hotel of the reputation of a troubled house.
There is not much question as to what would have happened to Parkins if
the Colonel had not intervened when he did. He would either have fallen out of the window or else lost his wits. But it is
not so evident what more the creature that came in answer to the whistle could have done than frighten. There seemed to be
absolutely nothing material about it save the bedclothes of which it had made itself a body. The Colonel, who remembered a
not very dissimilar occurrence in India, was of opinion that if Parkins had closed with it it could really have done very
little, and that its one power was that of frightening. The whole thing, he said, served to confirm his opinion of the Church
There is really nothing more to tell, but, as you may imagine, the Professor's
views on certain points are less clear cut than they used to be. His nerves, too, have suffered: he cannot even now see a
surplice hanging on a door quite unmoved, and the spectacle of a scarecrow in a field late on a winter afternoon has cost
him more than one sleepless night.