Travis's heart seemed to freeze tightly. He tried to breathe—he only gasped—and the corners of his mouth tightened and refused to open. He felt the blood rush up from around his loins, and leave him paralyzed and weak. In sheer desperation he threw the gun to his shoulder, and the next instant he would have fired the load into the face of the thing with its voice of the dead, had not something burst on his head with a staggering, overpowering blow, and despite his efforts to stand, his knees gave way beneath him and it seemed pleasant for him to lie prone upon the floor....
When he awakened an hour afterwards, he sat up, bewildered. His gun lay beside him, but the window was closed securely and bolted. No night air came in. The Davenport and pillow were there as before. His head ached and there was a bruised place over his ear. He walked into his own room and lit the lamp.
“I may have fallen and struck my head,” he said, bewildered with the strangeness of it all. “I may have,” he repeated—“but if I didn't see Tom Travis's ghost to-night there is no need to believe one's senses.”
He opened the door and let in two setters which fawned upon him and licked his hand. All his nervousness vanished.
“No one knows the comfort of a dog's company,” he said, “who does not love a dog?”
Then he bathed his face and head and went to sleep.
It was after midnight when Jack Bracken led Captain Tom in and put him to bed.
“A close shave for you, Cap'n Tom,” he said—“I struck just in time. I'll not leave you another night with the door unlocked.” Then: “But poor fellow—how can we blame him for wandering off, after all those years, and trying to get back again to his boyhood home.”