“I suppose you fellows know,” said a tall, solemn lad, “that a chap committed suicide here at the academy once?”
“No?” cried several.
“Sure thing,” nodded the tall fellow. “Cut his throat. He was daffy.”
“Dear me!” murmured Ted Smart, who had just strolled along in company with Dick Merriwell. “What a delightful way to kick the bucket! I admire his taste!”
“But was there a fellow who really committed suicide here?”
“Yes,” nodded Dick Merriwell. “My brother told me about it. His name was Bolt. The room he killed himself in was closed for a long time. Some of the fellows used to sneak into it nights when they wanted a little racket. There was a story about the room being haunted; but, of course, that was bosh.”
“Was it?” said the tall fellow, in a queer way.
“Perhaps it is the ghost of Cadet Bolt that is romping around here once more,” suggested a mocking lad.
“What do you think, Smart?” questioned a boy with squinting eyes.
“I have found it a bad practise to think,” answered Ted evasively. “It is wearing on the gray matter, don’t you know.”