Savage and Gorman roomed together, although they were not the best of friends, having come to a misunderstanding over Dick Merriwell and football matters.
Joe knew not just what awakened him. It seemed like a long, low sigh. However, when he opened his eyes, he dimly saw a white form standing at the foot of his bed. His first thought was that Gorman had arisen for something, but a moment later he discovered that Gorman was peacefully sleeping beside him, breathing regularly and somewhat loudly.
Savage was a fellow of considerable nerve, but now he was startled in spite of himself. His room was not on the right side for the moonlight to shine in at his window, but still there was light enough for him to make out the white figure, which had the general semblance of a human being.
Joe thought of Smart’s spook-story.
“Rot!” he told himself. “That’s what’s the matter. I must be dreaming.”
He deliberately pinched himself, discovering that he was very wide-awake.
The thing seemed to be looking straight at him, and a feeling of unspeakable queerness froze him stiff in bed. He tried to convince himself that it was a case of imagination, but the longer he looked the plainer he could see the ghostly figure. After a while he became convinced that there really was something white there at the foot of the bed.
Then through the room again sounded that long, low, tremulous sigh. It was expressive of unspeakable sadness, and about it there was something inhuman and spiritlike.
Savage felt himself getting cold as ice. He began to shiver so that the bed shook. In that moment he was ashamed of himself, for he was not a fellow who believed in such nonsense as ghosts. Summoning all his will-power, he sat up in bed, expecting the thing would vanish, in which case he would be satisfied it was an hallucination of some sort. Instead of vanishing, the ghost stretched out a hand toward Joe as if to grasp him.
Immediately Savage lay down again. The thing slowly moved away, disappearing from view.