by W. W. Jacobs
It wanted a few nights to Christmas, a festival for which the smallmarket town of Torchester was making extensive preparations. The narrowstreets which had been thronged with people were now almost deserted;the cheap-jack from London, with the remnant of breath left him afterhis evening's exertions, was making feeble attempts to blow out hisnaphtha lamp, and the last shops open were rapidly closing for thenight.
In the comfortable coffee-room of the old Boar's Head, half a dozenguests, principally commercial travellers, sat talking by the light ofthe fire. The talk had drifted from trade to politics, from politics toreligion, and so by easy stages to the supernatural. Three ghoststories, never known to fail before, had fallen flat; there was too muchnoise outside, too much light within. The fourth story was told by anold hand with more success; the streets were quiet, and he had turnedthe gas out. In the flickering light of the fire, as it shone on theglasses and danced with shadows on the walls, the story proved soenthralling that George, the waiter, whose presence had been forgotten,created a very disagreeable sensation by suddenly starting up from adark corner and gliding silently from the room. "That's what I call agood story," said one of the men, sipping his hot whisky. "Of courseit's an old idea that spirits like to get into the company of humanbeings. A man told me once that he travelled down the Great Western witha ghost and hadn't the slightest suspicion of it until the inspectorcame for tickets. My friend said the way that ghost tried to keep upappearances by feeling for it in all its pockets and looking on thefloor was quite touching. Ultimately it gave it up and with a faintgroan vanished through the ventilator."
"That'll do, Hirst," said another man.
"It's not a subject for jesting," said a little old gentleman who hadbeen an attentive listener. "I've never seen an apparition myself, but Iknow people who have, and I consider that they form a very interestinglink between us and the afterlife. There's a ghost story connected withthis house, you know."
"Never heard of it," said another speaker, "and I've been here someyears now."
"It dates back a long time now," said the old gentleman. "You've heardabout Jerry Bundler, George?"
"Well, I've just 'eard odds and ends, sir," said the old waiter, "but Inever put much count to 'em. There was one chap 'ere what said 'e sawit, and the gov'ner sacked 'im prompt."
"My father was a native of this town," said the old gentleman, "and knewthe story well. He was a truthful man and a steady churchgoer, but I'veheard him declare that once in his life he saw the appearance of JerryBundler in this house.".
"And who was this Bundler?" inquired a voice.
"A London thief, pickpocket, highwayman--anything he could turn hisdishonest hand to," replied the old gentleman; "and he was run to earthin this house one Christmas week some eighty years ago. He took his lastsupper in this very room, and after he had gone up to bed a couple ofBow Street runners, who had followed him from London but lost the scenta bit, went upstairs with the landlord and tried the door. It was stoutoak, and fast, so one went into the yard, and by means of a short laddergot onto the window-sill, while the other stayed outside the door. Thosebelow in the yard saw the man crouching on the sill, and then there wasa sudden smash of glass, and with a cry he fell in a heap on the stonesat their feet. Then in the moonlight they saw the white face of thepickpocket peeping over the sill, and while some stayed in the yard,others ran into the house and helped the other man to break the door in.It was difficult to obtain an entrance even then, for it was barred withheavy furniture, but they got in at last, and the first thing that mettheir eyes was the body of Jerry dangling from the top of the bed by hisown handkerchief."
"Which bedroom was it?" asked two or three voices together.
The narrator shook his head. "That I can't tell you; but the story goesthat Jerry still haunts this house, and my father used to declarepositively that the last time he slept here the ghost of Jerry Bundlerlowered itself from the top of his bed and tried to strangle him."
"That'll do," said an uneasy voice. "I wish you'd thought to ask yourfather which bedroom it was."
"What for?" inquired the old gentleman.
"Well, I should take care not to sleep in it, that's all," said thevoice, shortly.
"There's nothing to fear," said the other. "I don't believe for a momentthat ghosts could really-hurt one. In fact my father used to confessthat it was only the unpleasantness of the thing that upset him, andthat for all practical purposes Jerry's fingers might have been made ofcottonwool for all the harm they could do."
"That's all very fine," said the last speaker again; "a ghost story is aghost story, sir; but when a gentleman tells a tale of a ghost in thehouse in which one is going to sleep, I call it most ungentlemanly!"
"Pooh! nonsense!" said the old gentleman, rising; "ghosts can't hurtyou. For my own part, I should rather like to see one. Good night,gentlemen."
"Good night," said the others. "And I only hope Jerry'll pay you avisit," added the nervous man as the door closed.
"Bring some more whisky, George," said a stout commercial; "I wantkeeping up when the talk turns this way."
"Shall I light the gas, Mr. Malcolm?" said George.
"No; the fire's very comfortable," said the traveller. "Now, gentlemen,any of you know any more?"
"I think we've had enough," said another man; "we shall be thinking wesee spirits next, and we're not all like the old gentleman who's justgone."
"Old humbug!" said Hirst. "I should like to put him to the test. SupposeI dress up as Jerry Bundler and go and give him a chance of displayinghis courage?"
"Bravo!" said Malcolm, huskily, drowning one or two faint "Noes." "Justfor the joke, gentlemen."
"No, no! Drop it, Hirst," said another man.
"Only for the joke," said Hirst, somewhat eagerly. "I've got some thingsupstairs in which I am going to play in the Rivals--knee-breeches,buckles, and all that sort of thing. It's a rare chance. If you'll waita bit I'll give you a full-dress rehearsal, entitled, 'Jerry Bundler;or, The Nocturnal Strangler.'"
"You won't frighten us," said the commercial, with a husky laugh.
"I don't know that," said Hirst, sharply; "it's a question of acting,that's all. I'm pretty good, ain't I, Somers?"
"Oh, you're all right--for an amateur," said his friend, with a laugh.
"I'll bet you a level sov. you don't frighten me," said the stouttraveller.
"Done!" said Hirst. "I'll take the bet to frighten you first and the oldgentleman afterwards. These gentlemen shall be the judges."
"You won't frighten us, sir," said another man, "because we're preparedfor you; but you'd better leave the old man alone. It's dangerous play."
"Well, I'll try you first," said Hirst, springing up. "No gas, mind."
He ran lightly upstairs to his room, leaving the others, most of whomhad been drinking somewhat freely, to wrangle about his proceedings. Itended in two of them going to bed.
"He's crazy on acting," said Somers, lighting his pipe. "Thinks he's theequal of anybody almost. It doesn't matter with us, but I won't let himgo to the old man. And he won't mind so long as he gets an opportunityof acting to us."
"Well, I hope he'll hurry up," said Malcolm, yawning; "it's after twelvenow."
Nearly half an hour passed. Malcolm drew his watch from his pocket andwas busy winding it, when George, the waiter, who had been sent on anerrand to the bar, burst suddenly into the room and rushed towards them.
"'E's comin', gentlemen," he said breathlessly.
"Why, you're frightened, George," said the stout commercial, with achuckle.
"It was the suddenness of it," said George, sheepishly; "and besides, Ididn't look for seein' 'im in the bar. There's only a glimmer of lightthere, and 'e was sitting on the floor behind the bar. I nearly trod on'im."
"Oh, you'll never make a man, George," said Malcolm.
"Well, it took me unawares," said the waiter. "Not that I'd have gone tothe bar by myself if I'd known 'e was there, and I don't believe youwould either, sir."
"You don't know what it's like, sir," said George, catching him by thesleeve. "It ain't fit to look at by yourself, it ain't, indeed. It's gotthe--What's that?"
They all started at the sound of a smothered cry from the staircase andthe sound of somebody running hurriedly along the passage. Beforeanybody could speak, the door flew open and a figure bursting into theroom flung itself gasping and shivering upon them.
"What is it? What's the matter?" demanded Malcolm. "Why, it's Mr.Hirst." He shook him roughly and then held some spirit to his lips.Hirst drank it greedily and with a sharp intake of his breath grippedhim by the arm.
"Light the gas, George," said Malcolm.
The waiter obeyed hastily. Hirst, a ludicrous but pitiable figure inknee-breeches and coat, a large wig all awry and his face a mess ofgrease paint, clung to him, trembling.
"Now, what's the matter?" asked Malcolm.
"I've seen it," said Hirst, with a hysterical sob. "O Lord, I'll neverplay the fool again, never!"
"Seen what?" said the others.
"Him--it--the ghost--anything!" said Hirst, wildly.
"Rot!" said Malcolm, uneasily.
"I was coming down the stairs," said Hirst. "Just capering down--as Ithought--it ought to do. I felt a tap--"
He broke off suddenly and peered nervously through the open door intothe passage.
"I thought I saw it again," he whispered.
"Look--at the foot of the stairs. Can you see anything?"
"No, there's nothing there," said Malcolm, whose own voice shook alittle. "Go on. You felt a tap on your shoulder--"
"I turned round and saw it--a little wicked head and a white dead face.Pah!"
"That's what I saw in the bar," said George. "'Orrid it was--devilish!"
Hirst shuddered, and, still retaining his nervous grip of Malcolm'ssleeve, dropped into a chair.
"Well, it's a most unaccountable thing," said the dumbfounded Malcolm,turning round to the others. "It's the last time I come to this house."
"I leave to-morrow," said George. "I wouldn't go down to that bar againby myself, no, not for fifty pounds!"
"It's talking about the thing that's caused it, I expect," said one ofthe men; "we've all been talking about this and having it in our minds.Practically we've been forming a spiritualistic circle without knowingit."
"Hang the old gentleman!" said Malcolm, heartily. "Upon my soul, I'mhalf afraid to go to bed. It's odd they should both think they sawsomething."
"I saw it as plain as I see you, sir," said George, solemnly. "P'raps ifyou keep your eyes turned up the passage you'll see it for yourself."
They followed the direction of his finger, but saw nothing, although oneof them fancied that a head peeped round the corner of the wall.
"Who'll come down to the bar?" said Malcolm, looking round.
"You can go, if you like," said one of the others, with a faint laugh;"we'll wait here for you."
The stout traveller walked towards the door and took a few steps up thepassage. Then he stopped. All was quite silent, and he walked slowly tothe end and looked down fearfully towards the glass partition which shutoff the bar. Three times he made as though to go to it; then he turnedback, and, glancing over his shoulder, came hurriedly back to the room.
"Did you see it, sir?" whispered George.
"Don't know," said Malcolm, shortly. "I fancied I saw something, but itmight have been fancy. I'm in the mood to see anything just now. How areyou feeling now, sir?"
"Oh, I feel a bit better now," said Hirst, somewhat brusquely, as alleyes were turned upon him.
"I dare say you think I'm easily scared, but you didn't see it."
"Not at all," said Malcolm, smiling faintly despite himself.
"I'm going to bed," said Hirst, noticing the smile and resenting it."Will you share my room with me, Somers?"
"I will with pleasure," said his friend, "provided you don't mindsleeping with the gas on full all night."
He rose from his seat, and bidding the company a friendly good-night,left the room with his crestfallen friend. The others saw them to thefoot of the stairs, and having heard their door close, returned to thecoffee-room.
"Well, I suppose the bet's off?" said the stout commercial, poking thefire and then standing with his legs apart on the hearthrug; "though, asfar as I can see, I won it. I never saw a man so scared in all my life.Sort of poetic justice about it, isn't there?"
"Never mind about poetry or justice," said one of his listeners; "who'sgoing to sleep with me?"
"I will," said Malcolm, affably.
"And I suppose we share a room together, Mr. Leek?" said the third man,turning to the fourth.
"No, thank you," said the other, briskly; "I don't believe in ghosts. Ifanything comes into my room I shall shoot it."
"That won't hurt a spirit, Leek," said Malcolm, decisively.
"Well the noise'll be like company to me," said Leek, "and it'll wakethe house too. But if you're nervous, sir," he added, with a grin, tothe man who had suggested sharing his room, "George'll be only toopleased to sleep on the door-mat inside your room, I know."
"That I will, sir," said George, fervently; "and if you gentlemen wouldonly come down with me to the bar to put the gas out, I could never besufficiently grateful."
They went out in a body, with the exception of Leek, peering carefullybefore them as they went George turned the light out in the bar and theyreturned unmolested to the coffee-room, and, avoiding the sardonic smileof Leek, prepared to separate for the night.
"Give me the candle while you put the gas out, George," said thetraveller.
The waiter handed it to him and extinguished the gas, and at the samemoment all distinctly heard a step in the passage outside. It stopped atthe door, and as they watched with bated breath, the door creaked andslowly opened. Malcolm fell back open-mouthed, as a white, leering face,with sunken eyeballs and close-cropped bullet head, appeared at theopening.
For a few seconds the creature stood regarding them, blinking in astrange fashion at the candle. Then, with a sidling movement, it came alittle way into the room and stood there as if bewildered.
Not a man spoke or moved, but all watched with a horrible fascination asthe creature removed its dirty neckcloth and its head rolled on itsshoulder. For a minute it paused, and then, holding the rag before it,moved towards Malcolm.
The candle went out suddenly with a flash and a bang. There was a smellof powder, and something writhing in the darkness on the floor. A faint,choking cough, and then silence. Malcolm was the first to speak."Matches," he said, in a strange voice. George struck one. Then he leaptat the gas and a burner flamed from the match. Malcolm touched the thingon the floor with his foot and found it soft. He looked at hiscompanions. They mouthed inquiries at him, but he shook his head. He litthe candle, and, kneeling down, examined the silent thing on the floor.Then he rose swiftly, and dipping his handkerchief in the water-jug,bent down again and grimly wiped the white face. Then he sprang backwith a cry of incredulous horror, pointing at it. Leek's pistol fell tothe floor and he shut out the sight with his hands, but the others,crowding forward, gazed spell-bound at the dead face of Hirst.
Before a word was spoken the door opened and Somers hastily entered theroom. His eyes fell on the floor. "Good God!" he cried. "You didn't--"
Nobody spoke.
"I told him not to," he said, in a suffocating voice. "I told him notto. I told him--"
He leaned against the wall, deathly sick, put his arms out feebly, andfell fainting into the traveller's arms.
FALSE COLOURS