"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 College.
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
"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
"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 offensive."
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 loudly.
"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
"--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
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
"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
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
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 inevitable.
"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 people's 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."
QUIS EST ISTE QUI VENIT
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, and growling.
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 without it.
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
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 them.
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 the groyne.
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 day.
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 bed, sir?"
"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 it?"
"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
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
"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
When conversation was resumed. Parkins said, with a slight
"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 'supernatural'."
"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
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 like it."
"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
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 hearing.
"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 practical.
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
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 Colonel.
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
"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
"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 crumpled 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 of Rome.
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
1. The story's title
"Oh, whistle and I'll come to you, my lad" is the title
and refrain of a poem and song by Robert Burns.RETURN
2. Mr. Rogers was wrong, vide Dombey and Son,