“That settles it,” said Bart. “That’s a little too much, boys. We’ll have to wind this thing up—won’t we? Bring along a light, Phil.”
“O, Mas’r Bart! get me home,” groaned Solomon. “I member you when you wor a chile. I used to give you candy. Don let me be gobbled up.”
“Nonsense! Solomon. Come along; I’ll see you safe down, and then you can run for it to your room. Wait a minute, boys.”
Down went Bart, with Solomon, shuddering and quaking, at his heels, and finally reached the door.
“Now, then, Solomon,” he said, “run for it.”
Away went Solomon, in a frenzy of fear, his whole frame shuddering in vague superstitious terror, his brain reeling with excitement, his fancy crowded with images of horror. Away he went; he burst into the boarding-house, he raced up the stairs, he rushed into his room as before, banged all the furniture against the door, and lay crouched in a corner, and quaking till morning.
Bart returned at once.
“Boys,” said Jiggins, “it’s a solemn time—a deeply solemn time!”
“Won’t you come up, Jiggins?”
“No, boys,” said Jiggins; “and I warn you not to go up. That’s a solemn place—a deeply solemn place.”