As they thus chattered and laughed, Solomon stood surveying them with a beaming smile illuminating all his dark but expressive features; and all the time he kept whispering to himself words expressive of his feelings on “dat ar casium.”
Suddenly all this was interrupted.
It was late. All was still. All the other boys seemed to have gone to bed. Outside, the night was quite dark. And then and there, amid that stillness and in that darkness, it rang out right over their heads.
It was again that peculiar sound which they had once before heard, a long, shrill, abrupt, discordant shriek, repeated again and again, and echoing dismally throughout the gloomy extent of the long, unfinished garret, and dying away in the far distances with low and melancholy intonations. The ceiling above them only intervened between this room and the garret, so that they could hear it very plainly.
As the sound rang out, Solomon started. He was that moment lifting a plate, and the plate fell from his nerveless hands crashing on the floor. His face seemed to turn to a sickly greenish-brown; he staggered back, and leaned against the wall.
At that moment there was a knock at the door.
This completed Solomon’s horror. His knees gave way, his teeth chattered, his eyes rolled fearfully. He sank upon the floor, and remained there in a sitting posture.
“Come in,” shouted Bruce. “Hallo, Solomon! What’s the matter? Get up. Are you faint? Here, take a drink of water. Why, man, what’s the matter?”
Encouraged by Bruce’s words, Solomon made a great effort, and got up, edging away behind the boys as far from the-door as he could get.
No one had come in. And so Arthur went to the door, and opened it. Nobody was there.