The old lady spoke with asperity, for she was afraid of contradiction, and resented their quite apparent scepticism.
“Go on, please,” urged Stone.
“Well, the spirit came nearer my bed, and paused and looked down on me where I lay.”
“Did you see his face?” asked Elliott.
“Dimly. I can’t seem to make you understand how vague the whole thing was—and yet it was there! As he leaned over me, I saw him—saw the indistinct shape—and I heard the sound of a watch ticking. It was not my watch, it was a very faint ticking one, but all else was so still, that I positively heard it.”
“Gee!” said Fibsy, in an explosive whisper.
“Then he seemed about to move away. Impulsively, I made a movement to detain him. Almost without volition—acting on instinct—I put out my hand and clutched his arm. I felt his sleeve—it wasn’t a coat sleeve—nor a pajama sleeve—it seemed to have on his gymnasium suit—the sleeve was like woolen jersey—”
“And you felt this?”
“Yes, Mr. Stone, I felt it distinctly—and not only with my hand as I grasped at his arm but” Aunt Abby hesitated an instant, then went on, “But I bit at him! Yes, I did! I don’t know why, only I was possessed with an impulse to hold him—and he was slipping away. I didn’t realize at the time—who—what it was, and I sort of thought it was a burglar. But, anyway, I bit at him, and so I bit at the woolen sleeve—it was unmistakable—and on it I tasted raspberry jam.”
“What!” cried her hearers almost in concert.