“Come, come, gentlemen,” said my friend, “business, business. Now, I tell you what: we will all sit here and of course the first man who thinks he hears a sound will advise the others, when we will all go together and try and find out what it was, but in silence, mind. No man is to speak till we get back to this room, when here is paper and you have, most of you, pencils; let each man write down what impression that which he has seen and heard made upon him, writing it down in as few words as possible, and so we can compare impressions, and there will not be, as is often the case, one person modelling his ideas upon those of another.”
“Very good; I second that,” said Mr Hemson, while, after a few remarks, first one and then another agreed that the plan would be excellent.
Ten—eleven struck by the old church-clock, and the wind roared round the old place, rumbling in the chimney and sending the snow with soft pats up against the window-panes, so that more than once a member of the party started and looked round, but the warm glow of the fire, the social cheer, and perhaps, more than all, the spirits, tended to drive away any dread that might otherwise have taken possession of those present, and the night wore on.
Twelve struck by the old church-clock, and the wind lulled.
“Now is the witching—what’s the rest of it?” said one of the party.
“Ah,” said another, “now’s the ghostly time.”
“Don’t you wish you were at home, Hemson?” said another.
“Not I,” said the agent. “I’m perfectly cool, so far.”
“Well, I’m not,” said the first speaker, “for my shins are scorching.”
“Pass the kettle this way,” said my friend, “and—”