“More likely it’s rats,” put in Jack. “Can’t be a ghost—they’re noted chiefly for the noise they don’t make.”
I pinched Jack soundly for mentioning ghosts, and spoke as firmly as I could with my teeth chattering so,—
“It’s your microbes, Professor.”
Jack snickered, and the Professor rolled his eyes reproachfully at me.
Then we all went back to the fire and Jack threw on more wood. The Professor went on talking, only this time it was about telepathy, or something of that sort. And soon we heard that heavy, measured tread, as before. I must say I didn’t much like the sound of it—coming like that, with no feet to make the thing seem reasonable, and with no ghost to make it creepily interesting, but the men appeared to ignore the tramping, so I tried to not care.
Jack fell to smoking cigarettes, seeing Aunt Jane was asleep, and Clifford poked the ashes into fanciful little heaps and got creases in his forehead. He did look glum and no mistake, but I couldn’t see that he was afraid, or anything like that.
After awhile my eyes went shut, just for a minute. I could still hear the Professor’s voice droning like a big bumble-bee, when suddenly he stopped short in the middle of a sentence. That was odd, for he does love to round out his sentences nicely, even when he is interrupted.
I opened my eyes and looked at him. He was gazing, with mouth half open and with eyes full of fear, at something behind me.
Well, you know how it is when someone begins to stare behind you—if you were to be hanged for it the next minute, you’d turn and look. You couldn’t help it.
I turned in my chair, and—br-r-r-r! I went cold all over, with little prickles in my scalp. (I suppose that was my hair standing on end, though Jack says it always does.)