“But it happened three times in succession. And his door was carefully locked each night. In fact, he said that’s why he formed the habit of locking and bolting it. He was not at all afraid, but his mother had talked about spirit performances and he wanted to know what it all meant.”
“Is there any more of this rubbish?” Elsie asked.
“There is. The night I speak of, two nights before the dinner,—he told us this tale. He was lying in bed with the bedclothing drawn smoothly over him. He felt it slipping down as if it were being drawn off. He made no effort to hold it, nor to rise, as he was bent on waiting to see what would happen. Well, the sheet, blanket and counterpane, all, were drawn slowly, steadily and entirely off the bed and they fell in a heap on the floor.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Elsie, simply.
“You don’t have to. I’m merely repeating the story Kim told. Half a dozen fellows heard it, they’ll all tell you the same. Want their names?”
“Not now. I may ask for them some time.”
“All right. As soon as the clothes were all off, Kim sprang up, made a light, and investigated. There was no sign of any one about,—the door was locked as he had left it, and, he said, there was no other possible access to the room. Kim wasn’t afraid, but he was flabbergasted. He asked us our opinion. You know what Poltergeist means?”
“Oh, I know it’s some foolishness the Spiritualists babble about,—that snatches bedclothes off and clatters tin pans and that.”
“Yes; well, several of the men said it was Poltergeist.”
“Polter—fiddlesticks! It was a nightmare, and you only tell the story to get me off the track.”