"Ye--es," said Sparrow softly, and making two syllables of the word.
"They'd had no hampers sent them, and as they sat round the fire that evening they knew both of them there was no Christmas dinner in the house. They had neither of them tasted food for some days, and had no money to buy any, and if they had had, the snow was too deep to get anywhere. They had tried making soup out of copybook covers, but it wasn't nourishing, and the soles of their boots which they tried to eat didn't sit well on their stomachs."
Some one choked at this point, greatly to the speaker's wrath.
"All right; some one seems to think it a laughing matter, so I'll stop."
"Oh no," cried one or two voices eagerly, "do go on. He only got a piece of apple the wrong way."
"Was it you laughed, Jim Sparrow?" demanded Fergus.
"Oh no," replied Jim, who was holding on rather tight to the sides of his chair.
"I don't like any one making fun of a serious thing like this," said Fergus. "I was saying the soles of their boots didn't sit well on their stomachs. They sat round the fire the whole evening, brooding and ravenous, and saying nothing. For a long time they both stared into the fire; then presently the master took his eyes off the fire and stared at Bubbles. Bubbles used to be fat, like you, Sparrow, but the last day or two he had got rather reduced. Still he was fairly plump; at least, so thought the master, as he looked first at him, then at the fire, and then thought of the empty larder downstairs."
It was too dark to see Jim Sparrow, but I could almost _hear_ him turn pale, so profound was the silence.
"The fire was a big one, a roaring one, and howled up the chimney as if it was hungry too. Bubbles where he sat was close to it, in fact, his feet almost touched the bars. The master sat a little behind Bubbles, and his arm rested on the back of Bubbles's chair. `To-morrow,' thought the master, `he will be thinner, and next day only skin and bone.' Then he thought of the saying in the copy-books, `Never put off till to- morrow what you can do to-day.' He sprang to his feet, seized Bubbles by the head and feet--there was a shriek and a yell--and next moment the master was alone in the room, and the chimney was on fire!"
At this last sentence the speaker, suiting the action to the word, had risen from his seat and suddenly pounced upon the unhappy Sparrow, who, already paralysed with terror, now fairly yelled and howled for mercy.
Fergus dropped him back gently into his chair, and resuming his own seat, continued--
"There is very little to add. Under the ruins were found the remains of the master grasping in each hand a large-sized drumstick. Bubbles was never seen more. It was supposed he escaped without his legs on to the roof, and they do say that every Christmas Eve he revisits Ferriby, and tries to get down the chimney in search of his lost legs."
At the conclusion of this tragic story every one drew a long breath.
Jim Sparrow, it was clear, had swallowed it from beginning to end, and one or two others of the juniors looked as if they would have been more pleased had the event not been made to happen on Christmas Eve, of all nights. But with these exceptions the whole thing seemed a very good joke, and greatly to the credit of Fergus's imagination.
"Oh, and I should say," added that doughty historian, as he poked up the fire into a blaze, "though it's not of much consequence, that this took place in this very house, they say in this very room. Funny story, isn't it, Sparrow?"
Sparrow had not yet sufficiently recovered from his fright to reply, but it was evident by his looks he considered it anything but funny.
However, the talk soon veered round to other and more ordinary topics, in the midst of which, aided by the remnants of our feast, the spirits even of Jim Sparrow revived, so much so that by bedtime he was as cheerful as if he had never even heard the name of Bubbles.
Sub-Chapter II.
THE GHOST.
Mr Jolliffe appeared on the scene as usual at ten o'clock, and read prayers. After which, advising us all to get a good night, and announcing that to-morrow being Christmas Day, we should not breakfast till nine, he trotted off to his quarters and left us.
We were all pretty ready to take his advice, for what with a sixteen- mile run across country in the afternoon, and our big dinner in the evening, the thought of bed seemed rather a comfortable prospect.
One or two of the fellows, however, fellows whom no exertion ever seemed to weary, protested against going to bed at ten o'clock, and took good care that those who did shouldn't sleep. We were used to that, and had to put up with it, and it must have been close upon the stroke of Christmas Day before they finally condescended to turn in and leave us in peace.
One by one the candles went out, the talk and the laughter gradually subsided, and even the grunts and twitches of the doughty heroes as they first gave themselves over to slumber died away in the darkness. For the first time since we rose that morning, a dead silence reigned in Jolliffe's.
In fact, as I lay awake and tried to get to sleep the silence seemed unnaturally profound. The tick of the big clock down in the hall struck on the ear with almost a thud, and the light breeze outside moaned among the ventilators and played chromatic scales through the keyhole in a fashion quite disturbing. I wished that wind would shut up, and that the clock would run down. How was a fellow to get to sleep with such a row going on?
And yet, next moment, the utter silence of the place disturbed me even more than the wind and the clock. Why, I actually seemed to hear the winking of my own eyes as I lay there. I wished some one would snore, or breathe hard, or roll over in his bed. But no, in all those thirty beds there was neither sound nor motion.
Nothing is so unpleasant as listening for sounds in a dead silence. I half wished--
Hullo! what was that? Rain on the window! Why can't rain drop straight instead of tapping at a fellow's window? It sounded like some one wanting to come in. I knew it was only rain; but supposing it _had_ been somebody--a thief, for instance, or--or--Bubbles come to look after his legs!
I do not know what evil genius put the thought of Bubbles into my head.
But once in, I could not get it out. Downstairs before the big fire I had laughed as loud as any one, and been as sure as sure could be that Fergus's story was all an invention of his fertile imagination. But, somehow, now that the lights were out, and the fellows all asleep, and the wind was moaning outside, and I lay sleepless on my bed, it did not seem so utterly preposterous.
Not that I believed in ghosts. Oh dear no. I hoped I was not such a fool as that, but supposing--
That rain again at the window! Why couldn't it stop startling a fellow in that way? Yes, supposing Fergus's story had been founded on fact, what a dreadful end to a boy Bubbles's end must have been!
"And they do say,"--the words seemed to echo in my ears--"that every Christmas Eve he re-visits Ferriby, and tries to get down the chimney in search of his lost legs."
Ugh! Why did not some of the fellows wake up? How unnaturally still they all were! I would have given all my pocket-money to two of them to start another steeplechase that moment over the beds. In fact, I had half a mind to--
As I reached this point a sudden noise made my blood run cold, and froze me to my bed.
It did not seem to be in the dormitory, or on the stairs outside, or in the quadrangle below. None of my companions appeared to have heard it, for they all slept on quietly, and the silence which followed was doubly as intense as that which had gone before. What could it be?
I do not fancy I was a particularly cowardly boy, but somehow that sound terrified me. I could neither move nor call out. All I could do was to lie and listen.
There it was again! this time not so sudden, but far more distinct.
There was no mistaking it now. As sure as I lay there, it was something on the roof! It sounded like something crawling slowly and by fits and starts along the gutter just above the dormitory. Sometimes it seemed to spring upwards, as though attempting to reach a higher position, and then sullenly slip down and proceed on its crawling way.
Yes, without doubt Fergus had told the truth!
Suddenly a voice in a loud whisper at the other end of the dormitory exclaimed--
"Listen! I say, listen!"
It was Lamb's voice. There was at least some comfort in knowing that I was not the only one awake.
With a desperate effort I sat up in my bed and replied--
"Oh, Lamb, what is it?"
His only reply was a gasp, as the noises recommenced. The body, whatever it was, seemed to have dragged itself forward, so as to be now just over our heads. The ceiling above us went right up into the roof, and I could distinctly hear a rustling sound against the tiles, followed by an occasional upward leap, sometimes almost wild in its eagerness.
How could I mistake these sounds? The chimney was immediately above us, and it was towards this goal, as I well knew, that the hapless and legless Bubbles was destined fruitlessly to aspire. At last one bound more frantic than the rest, followed by a sudden clatter of displaced tiles, unloosed my tongue, and I fairly cried out--
"Oh!"
Half a dozen fellows were on the alert in an instant.
"Who's that called out?" cried one. "I'd like to scrag him."
"What's the row, whoever it is?" demanded Fergus.
"Hush! Listen!" was all I could reply.
There must have been something in my voice which bespoke my horror, for a dead silence ensued.