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Title: "Oh, Whistle, and I'll come to you, My Lad"
Author: James, Montague Rhodes (1862-1936)
Date of first publication: 1904
   [included in "Ghost Stories of an Antiquary"]
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   "The Collected Ghost Stories of M. R. James"
   (New York: Longmans, Green;
   London: Edward Arnold, 1931)
   [first edition]
Date first posted: 6 May 2013
Date last updated: 6 May 2013
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #1071

This ebook was produced by:
Delphine Lettau, Mary Meehan, Mark Akrigg
& the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
at http://www.pgdpcanada.net






              "OH, WHISTLE, AND I'LL COME TO YOU, MY LAD"

                            By M. R. JAMES




"I suppose you will be getting away pretty soon, now Full term is over,
Professor," said a person not in the story to the Professor of
Ontography, soon after they had sat down next to each other at a feast
in the hospitable hall of St. James's College.

The Professor was young, neat, and precise in speech.

"Yes," he said; "my friends have been making me take up golf this term,
and I mean to go to the East Coast--in point of fact to Burnstow--(I
dare say you know it) for a week or ten days, to improve my game. I hope
to get off to-morrow."

"Oh, Parkins," said his neighbour on the other side, "if you are going
to Burnstow, I wish you would look at the site of the Templars'
preceptory, and let me know if you think it would be any good to have a
dig there in the summer."

It was, as you might suppose, a person of antiquarian pursuits who said
this, but, since he merely appears in this prologue, there is no need to
give his entitlements.

"Certainly," said Parkins, the Professor: "if you will describe to me
whereabouts the site is, I will do my best to give you an idea of the
lie of the land when I get back; or I could write to you about it, if
you would tell me where you are likely to be."

"Don't trouble to do that, thanks. It's only that I'm thinking of taking
my family in that direction in the Long, and it occurred to me that, as
very few of the English preceptories have ever been properly planned, I
might have an opportunity of doing something useful on off-days."

The Professor rather sniffed at the idea that planning out a preceptory
could be described as useful. His neighbour continued:

"The site--I doubt if there is anything showing above ground--must be
down quite close to the beach now. The sea has encroached tremendously,
as you know, all along that bit of coast. I should think, from the map,
that it must be about three-quarters of a mile from the Globe Inn, at
the north end of the town. Where are you going to stay?"

"Well, _at_ the Globe Inn, as a matter of fact," said Parkins; "I have
engaged a room there. I couldn't get in anywhere else; most of the
lodging-houses are shut up in winter, it seems; and, as it is, they tell
me that the only room of any size I can have is really a double-bedded
one, and that they haven't a corner in which to store the other bed, and
so on. But I must have a fairly large room, for I am taking some books
down, and mean to do a bit of work; and though I don't quite fancy
having an empty bed--not to speak of two--in what I may call for the
time being my study, I suppose I can manage to rough it for the short
time I shall be there."

"Do you call having an extra bed in your room roughing it, Parkins?"
said a bluff person opposite. "Look here, I shall come down and occupy
it for a bit; it'll be company for you."

The Professor quivered, but managed to laugh in a courteous manner.

"By all means, Rogers; there's nothing I should like better. But I'm
afraid you would find it rather dull; you don't play golf, do you?"

"No, thank Heaven!" said rude Mr. Rogers.

"Well, you see, when I'm not writing I shall most likely be out on the
links, and that, as I say, would be rather dull for you, I'm afraid."

"Oh, I don't know! There's certain to be somebody I know in the place;
but, of course, if you don't want me, speak the word, Parkins; I shan't
be offended. Truth, as you always tell us, is never offensive."

Parkins was, indeed, scrupulously polite and strictly truthful. It is to
be feared that Mr. Rogers sometimes practised upon his knowledge of
these characteristics. In Parkins's breast there was a conflict now
raging, which for a moment or two did not allow him to answer. That
interval being over, he said:

"Well, if you want the exact truth, Rogers, I was considering whether
the room I speak of would really be large enough to accommodate us both
comfortably; and also whether (mind, I shouldn't have said this if you
hadn't pressed me) you would not constitute something in the nature of a
hindrance to my work."

Rogers laughed loudly.

"Well done, Parkins!" he said. "It's all right. I promise not to
interrupt your work; don't you disturb yourself about that. No, I won't
come if you don't want me; but I thought I should do so nicely to keep
the ghosts off." Here he might have been seen to wink and to nudge his
next neighbour. Parkins might also have been seen to become pink. "I beg
pardon, Parkins," Rogers continued; "I oughtn't to have said that. I
forgot you didn't like levity on these topics."

"Well," Parkins said, "as you have mentioned the matter, I freely own
that I do _not_ like careless talk about what you call ghosts. A man in
my position," he went on, raising his voice a little, "cannot, I find,
be too careful about appearing to sanction the current beliefs on such
subjects. As you know, Rogers, or as you ought to know; for I think I
have never concealed my views----"

"No, you certainly have not, old man," put in Rogers _sotto voce_.

"----I hold that any semblance, any appearance of concession to the view
that such things might exist is equivalent to a renunciation of all that
I hold most sacred. But I'm afraid I have not succeeded in securing your
attention."

"Your _undivided_ attention, was what Dr. Blimber actually _said_,"[1]
Rogers interrupted, with every appearance of an earnest desire for
accuracy. "But I beg your pardon, Parkins: I'm stopping you."

[Footnote 1: Mr. Rogers was wrong, _vide_ _Dombey and Son_, chapter
xii.]

"No, not at all," said Parkins. "I don't remember Blimber; perhaps he
was before my time. But I needn't go on. I'm sure you know what I mean."

"Yes, yes," said Rogers, rather hastily--"just so. We'll go into it
fully at Burnstow, or somewhere."

In repeating the above dialogue I have tried to give the impression
which it made on me, that Parkins was something of an old woman--rather
hen-like, perhaps, in his little ways; totally destitute, alas! of the
sense of humour, but at the same time dauntless and sincere in his
convictions, and a man deserving of the greatest respect. Whether or not
the reader has gathered so much, that was the character which Parkins
had.

       *       *       *       *       *

On the following day Parkins did, as he had hoped, succeed in getting
away from his college, and in arriving at Burnstow. He was made welcome
at the Globe Inn, was safely installed in the large double-bedded room
of which we have heard, and was able before retiring to rest to arrange
his materials for work in apple-pie order upon a commodious table which
occupied the outer end of the room, and was surrounded on three sides by
windows looking out seaward; that is to say, the central window looked
straight out to sea, and those on the left and right commanded prospects
along the shore to the north and south respectively. On the south you
saw the village of Burnstow. On the north no houses were to be seen, but
only the beach and the low cliff backing it. Immediately in front was a
strip--not considerable--of rough grass, dotted with old anchors,
capstans, and so forth; then a broad path; then the beach. Whatever may
have been the original distance between the Globe Inn and the sea, not
more than sixty yards now separated them.

The rest of the population of the inn was, of course, a golfing one, and
included few elements that call for a special description. The most
conspicuous figure was, perhaps, that of an _ancient militaire_,
secretary of a London club, and possessed of a voice of incredible
strength, and of views of a pronouncedly Protestant type. These were apt
to find utterance after his attendance upon the ministrations of the
Vicar, an estimable man with inclinations towards a picturesque ritual,
which he gallantly kept down as far as he could out of deference to East
Anglian tradition.

Professor Parkins, one of whose principal characteristics was pluck,
spent the greater part of the day following his arrival at Burnstow in
what he had called improving his game, in company with this Colonel
Wilson: and during the afternoon--whether the process of improvement
were to blame or not, I am not sure--the Colonel's demeanour assumed a
colouring so lurid that even Parkins jibbed at the thought of walking
home with him from the links. He determined, after a short and furtive
look at that bristling moustache and those incarnadined features, that
it would be wiser to allow the influences of tea and tobacco to do what
they could with the Colonel before the dinner-hour should render a
meeting inevitable.

"I might walk home to-night along the beach," he reflected--"yes, and
take a look--there will be light enough for that--at the ruins of which
Disney was talking. I don't exactly know where they are, by the way; but
I expect I can hardly help stumbling on them."

This he accomplished, I may say, in the most literal sense, for in
picking his way from the links to the shingle beach his foot caught,
partly in a gorse-root and partly in a biggish stone, and over he went.
When he got up and surveyed his surroundings, he found himself in a
patch of somewhat broken ground covered with small depressions and
mounds. These latter, when he came to examine them, proved to be simply
masses of flints embedded in mortar and grown over with turf. He must,
he quite rightly concluded, be on the site of the preceptory he had
promised to look at. It seemed not unlikely to reward the spade of the
explorer; enough of the foundations was probably left at no great depth
to throw a good deal of light on the general plan. He remembered vaguely
that the Templars, to whom this site had belonged, were in the habit of
building round churches, and he thought a particular series of the humps
or mounds near him did appear to be arranged in something of a circular
form. Few people can resist the temptation to try a little amateur
research in a department quite outside their own, if only for the
satisfaction of showing how successful they would have been had they
only taken it up seriously. Our Professor, however, if he felt something
of this mean desire, was also truly anxious to oblige Mr. Disney. So he
paced with care the circular area he had noticed, and wrote down its
rough dimensions in his pocket-book. Then he proceeded to examine an
oblong eminence which lay east of the centre of the circle, and seemed
to his thinking likely to be the base of a platform or altar. At one end
of it, the northern, a patch of the turf was gone--removed by some boy
or other creature _fer natur_. It might, he thought, be as well to
probe the soil here for evidences of masonry, and he took out his knife
and began scraping away the earth. And now followed another little
discovery: a portion of soil fell inward as he scraped, and disclosed a
small cavity. He lighted one match after another to help him to see of
what nature the hole was, but the wind was too strong for them all. By
tapping and scratching the sides with his knife, however, he was able to
make out that it must be an artificial hole in masonry. It was
rectangular, and the sides, top, and bottom, if not actually plastered,
were smooth and regular. Of course it was empty. No! As he withdrew the
knife he heard a metallic clink, and when he introduced his hand it met
with a cylindrical object lying on the floor of the hole. Naturally
enough, he picked it up, and when he brought it into the light, now fast
fading, he could see that it, too, was of man's making--a metal tube
about four inches long, and evidently of some considerable age.

By the time Parkins had made sure that there was nothing else in this
odd receptacle, it was too late and too dark for him to think of
undertaking any further search. What he had done had proved so
unexpectedly interesting that he determined to sacrifice a little more
of the daylight on the morrow to archology. The object which he now had
safe in his pocket was bound to be of some slight value at least, he
felt sure.

Bleak and solemn was the view on which he took a last look before
starting homeward. A faint yellow light in the west showed the links, on
which a few figures moving towards the club-house were still visible,
the squat martello tower, the lights of Aldsey village, the pale ribbon
of sands intersected at intervals by black wooden groynes, the dim and
murmuring sea. The wind was bitter from the north, but was at his back
when he set out for the Globe. He quickly rattled and clashed through
the shingle and gained the sand, upon which, but for the groynes which
had to be got over every few yards, the going was both good and quiet.
One last look behind, to measure the distance he had made since leaving
the ruined Templars' church, showed him a prospect of company on his
walk, in the shape of a rather indistinct personage, who seemed to be
making great efforts to catch up with him, but made little, if any,
progress. I mean that there was an appearance of running about his
movements, but that the distance between him and Parkins did not seem
materially to lessen. So, at least, Parkins thought, and decided that he
almost certainly did not know him, and that it would be absurd to wait
until he came up. For all that, company, he began to think, would really
be very welcome on that lonely shore, if only you could choose your
companion. In his unenlightened days he had read of meetings in such
places which even now would hardly bear thinking of. He went on thinking
of them, however, until he reached home, and particularly of one which
catches most people's fancy at some time of their childhood. "Now I saw
in my dream that Christian had gone but a very little way when he saw a
foul fiend coming over the field to meet him." "What should I do now,"
he thought, "if I looked back and caught sight of a black figure sharply
defined against the yellow sky, and saw that it had horns and wings? I
wonder whether I should stand or run for it. Luckily, the gentleman
behind is not of that kind, and he seems to be about as far off now as
when I saw him first. Well, at this rate he won't get his dinner as
soon as I shall; and, dear me! it's within a quarter of an hour of the
time now. I must run!"

Parkins had, in fact, very little time for dressing. When he met the
Colonel at dinner, Peace--or as much of her as that gentleman could
manage--reigned once more in the military bosom; nor was she put to
flight in the hours of bridge that followed dinner, for Parkins was a
more than respectable player. When, therefore, he retired towards twelve
o'clock, he felt that he had spent his evening in quite a satisfactory
way, and that, even for so long as a fortnight or three weeks, life at
the Globe would be supportable under similar conditions--"especially,"
thought he, "if I go on improving my game."

As he went along the passages he met the boots of the Globe, who stopped
and said:

"Beg your pardon, sir, but as I was a-brushing your coat just now there
was somethink fell out of the pocket. I put it on your chest of drawers,
sir, in your room, sir--a piece of a pipe or somethink of that, sir.
Thank you, sir. You'll find it on your chest of drawers, sir--yes, sir.
Good night, sir."

The speech served to remind Parkins of his little discovery of that
afternoon. It was with some considerable curiosity that he turned it
over by the light of his candles. It was of bronze, he now saw, and was
shaped very much after the manner of the modern dog-whistle; in fact it
was--yes, certainly it was--actually no more nor less than a whistle.
He put it to his lips, but it was quite full of a fine, caked-up sand or
earth, which would not yield to knocking, but must be loosened with a
knife. Tidy as ever in his habits, Parkins cleared out the earth on to a
piece of paper, and took the latter to the window to empty it out. The
night was clear and bright, as he saw when he had opened the casement,
and he stopped for an instant to look at the sea and note a belated
wanderer stationed on the shore in front of the inn. Then he shut the
window, a little surprised at the late hours people kept at Burnstow,
and took his whistle to the light again. Why, surely there were marks on
it, and not merely marks, but letters! A very little rubbing rendered
the deeply-cut inscription quite legible, but the Professor had to
confess, after some earnest thought, that the meaning of it was as
obscure to him as the writing on the wall to Belshazzar. There were
legends both on the front and on the back of the whistle. The one read
thus:

        FLA
    FUR      BIS
        FLE

The other:

     [Symbol] QUIS EST ISTE QUI UENIT [Symbol]

"I ought to be able to make it out," he thought; "but I suppose I am a
little rusty in my Latin. When I come to think of it, I don't believe I
even know the word for a whistle. The long one does seem simple enough.
It ought to mean, 'Who is this who is coming?' Well, the best way to
find out is evidently to whistle for him."

He blew tentatively and stopped suddenly, startled and yet pleased at
the note he had elicited. It had a quality of infinite distance in it,
and, soft as it was, he somehow felt it must be audible for miles round.
It was a sound, too, that seemed to have the power (which many scents
possess) of forming pictures in the brain. He saw quite clearly for a
moment a vision of a wide, dark expanse at night, with a fresh wind
blowing, and in the midst a lonely figure--how employed, he could not
tell. Perhaps he would have seen more had not the picture been broken by
the sudden surge of a gust of wind against his casement, so sudden that
it made him look up, just in time to see the white glint of a sea-bird's
wing somewhere outside the dark panes.

The sound of the whistle had so fascinated him that he could not help
trying it once more, this time more boldly. The note was little, if at
all, louder than before, and repetition broke the illusion--no picture
followed, as he had half hoped it might. "But what is this? Goodness!
what force the wind can get up in a few minutes! What a tremendous gust!
There! I knew that window-fastening was no use! Ah! I thought so--both
candles out. It's enough to tear the room to pieces."

The first thing was to get the window shut. While you might count twenty
Parkins was struggling with the small casement, and felt almost as if he
were pushing back a sturdy burglar, so strong was the pressure. It
slackened all at once, and the window banged to and latched itself. Now
to relight the candles and see what damage, if any, had been done. No,
nothing seemed amiss; no glass even was broken in the casement. But the
noise had evidently roused at least one member of the household: the
Colonel was to be heard stumping in his stockinged feet on the floor
above, and growling.

Quickly as it had risen, the wind did not fall at once. On it went,
moaning and rushing past the house, at times rising to a cry so desolate
that, as Parkins disinterestedly said, it might have made fanciful
people feel quite uncomfortable; even the unimaginative, he thought
after a quarter of an hour, might be happier without it.

Whether it was the wind, or the excitement of golf, or of the researches
in the preceptory that kept Parkins awake, he was not sure. Awake he
remained, in any case, long enough to fancy (as I am afraid I often do
myself under such conditions) that he was the victim of all manner of
fatal disorders: he would lie counting the beats of his heart, convinced
that it was going to stop work every moment, and would entertain grave
suspicions of his lungs, brain, liver, etc.--suspicions which he was
sure would be dispelled by the return of daylight, but which until then
refused to be put aside. He found a little vicarious comfort in the idea
that someone else was in the same boat. A near neighbour (in the
darkness it was not easy to tell his direction) was tossing and
rustling in his bed, too.

The next stage was that Parkins shut his eyes and determined to give
sleep every chance. Here again over-excitement asserted itself in
another form--that of making pictures. _Experto crede_, pictures do come
to the closed eyes of one trying to sleep, and are often so little to
his taste that he must open his eyes and disperse them.

Parkins's experience on this occasion was a very distressing one. He
found that the picture which presented itself to him was continuous.
When he opened his eyes, of course, it went; but when he shut them once
more it framed itself afresh, and acted itself out again, neither
quicker nor slower than before. What he saw was this:

A long stretch of shore--shingle edged by sand, and intersected at short
intervals with black groynes running down to the water--a scene, in
fact, so like that of his afternoon's walk that, in the absence of any
landmark, it could not be distinguished therefrom. The light was
obscure, conveying an impression of gathering storm, late winter
evening, and slight cold rain. On this bleak stage at first no actor was
visible. Then, in the distance, a bobbing black object appeared; a
moment more, and it was a man running, jumping, clambering over the
groynes, and every few seconds looking eagerly back. The nearer he came
the more obvious it was that he was not only anxious, but even terribly
frightened, though his face was not to be distinguished. He was,
moreover, almost at the end of his strength. On he came; each successive
obstacle seemed to cause him more difficulty than the last. "Will he get
over this next one?" thought Parkins; "it seems a little higher than the
others." Yes; half climbing, half throwing himself, he did get over, and
fell all in a heap on the other side (the side nearest to the
spectator). There, as if really unable to get up again, he remained
crouching under the groyne, looking up in an attitude of painful
anxiety.

So far no cause whatever for the fear of the runner had been shown; but
now there began to be seen, far up the shore, a little flicker of
something light-coloured moving to and fro with great swiftness and
irregularity. Rapidly growing larger, it, too, declared itself as a
figure in pale, fluttering draperies, ill-defined. There was something
about its motion which made Parkins very unwilling to see it at close
quarters. It would stop, raise arms, bow itself toward the sand, then
run stooping across the beach to the water-edge and back again; and
then, rising upright, once more continue its course forward at a speed
that was startling and terrifying. The moment came when the pursuer was
hovering about from left to right only a few yards beyond the groyne
where the runner lay in hiding. After two or three ineffectual castings
hither and thither it came to a stop, stood upright, with arms raised
high, and then darted straight forward towards the groyne.

It was at this point that Parkins always failed in his resolution to
keep his eyes shut. With many misgivings as to incipient failure of
eyesight, over-worked brain, excessive smoking, and so on, he finally
resigned himself to light his candle, get out a book, and pass the night
waking, rather than be tormented by this persistent panorama, which he
saw clearly enough could only be a morbid reflection of his walk and his
thoughts on that very day.

The scraping of match on box and the glare of light must have startled
some creatures of the night--rats or what not--which he heard scurry
across the floor from the side of his bed with much rustling. Dear,
dear! the match is out! Fool that it is! But the second one burnt
better, and a candle and book were duly procured, over which Parkins
pored till sleep of a wholesome kind came upon him, and that in no long
space. For about the first time in his orderly and prudent life he
forgot to blow out the candle, and when he was called next morning at
eight there was still a flicker in the socket and a sad mess of guttered
grease on the top of the little table.

After breakfast he was in his room, putting the finishing touches to his
golfing costume--fortune had again allotted the Colonel to him for a
partner--when one of the maids came in.

"Oh, if you please," she said, "would you like any extra blankets on
your bed, sir?"

"Ah! thank you," said Parkins. "Yes, I think I should like one. It
seems likely to turn rather colder."

In a very short time the maid was back with the blanket.

"Which bed should I put it on, sir?" she asked.

"What? Why, that one--the one I slept in last night," he said, pointing
to it.

"Oh yes! I beg your pardon, sir, but you seemed to have tried both of
'em; leastways, we had to make 'em both up this morning."

"Really? How very absurd!" said Parkins. "I certainly never touched the
other, except to lay some things on it. Did it actually seem to have
been slept in?"

"Oh yes, sir!" said the maid. "Why, all the things was crumpled and
throwed about all ways, if you'll excuse me, sir--quite as if anyone
'adn't passed but a very poor night, sir."

"Dear me," said Parkins. "Well, I may have disordered it more than I
thought when I unpacked my things. I'm very sorry to have given you the
extra trouble, I'm sure. I expect a friend of mine soon, by the way--a
gentleman from Cambridge--to come and occupy it for a night or two. That
will be all right, I suppose, won't it?"

"Oh yes, to be sure, sir. Thank you, sir. It's no trouble, I'm sure,"
said the maid, and departed to giggle with her colleagues.

Parkins set forth, with a stern determination to improve his game.

I am glad to be able to report that he succeeded so far in this
enterprise that the Colonel, who had been rather repining at the
prospect of a second day's play in his company, became quite chatty as
the morning advanced; and his voice boomed out over the flats, as
certain also of our own minor poets have said, "like some great bourdon
in a minster tower."

"Extraordinary wind, that, we had last night," he said. "In my old home
we should have said someone had been whistling for it."

"Should you, indeed!" said Parkins. "Is there a superstition of that
kind still current in your part of the country?"

"I don't know about superstition," said the Colonel. "They believe in it
all over Denmark and Norway, as well as on the Yorkshire coast; and my
experience is, mind you, that there's generally something at the bottom
of what these country-folk hold to, and have held to for generations.
But it's your drive" (or whatever it might have been: the golfing reader
will have to imagine appropriate digressions at the proper intervals).

When conversation was resumed, Parkins said, with a slight hesitancy:

"Apropos of what you were saying just now, Colonel, I think I ought to
tell you that my own views on such subjects are very strong. I am, in
fact, a convinced disbeliever in what is called the 'supernatural.'"

"What!" said the Colonel, "do you mean to tell me you don't believe in
second-sight, or ghosts, or anything of that kind?"

"In nothing whatever of that kind," returned Parkins firmly.

"Well," said the Colonel, "but it appears to me at that rate, sir, that
you must be little better than a Sadducee."

Parkins was on the point of answering that, in his opinion, the
Sadducees were the most sensible persons he had ever read of in the Old
Testament; but, feeling some doubt as to whether much mention of them
was to be found in that work, he preferred to laugh the accusation off.

"Perhaps I am," he said; "but----Here, give me my cleek, boy!--Excuse
me one moment, Colonel." A short interval. "Now, as to whistling for the
wind, let me give you my theory about it. The laws which govern winds
are really not at all perfectly known--to fisher-folk and such, of
course, not known at all. A man or woman of eccentric habits, perhaps,
or a stranger, is seen repeatedly on the beach at some unusual hour, and
is heard whistling. Soon afterwards a violent wind rises; a man who
could read the sky perfectly or who possessed a barometer could have
foretold that it would. The simple people of a fishing-village have no
barometers, and only a few rough rules for prophesying weather. What
more natural than that the eccentric personage I postulated should be
regarded as having raised the wind, or that he or she should clutch
eagerly at the reputation of being able to do so? Now, take last night's
wind: as it happens, I myself was whistling. I blew a whistle twice, and
the wind seemed to come absolutely in answer to my call. If anyone had
seen me----"

The audience had been a little restive under this harangue, and Parkins
had, I fear, fallen somewhat into the tone of a lecturer; but at the
last sentence the Colonel stopped.

"Whistling, were you?" he said. "And what sort of whistle did you use?
Play this stroke first." Interval.

"About that whistle you were asking, Colonel. It's rather a curious one.
I have it in my----No; I see I've left it in my room. As a matter of
fact, I found it yesterday."

And then Parkins narrated the manner of his discovery of the whistle,
upon hearing which the Colonel grunted, and opined that, in Parkins's
place, he should himself be careful about using a thing that had
belonged to a set of Papists, of whom, speaking generally, it might be
affirmed that you never knew what they might not have been up to. From
this topic he diverged to the enormities of the Vicar, who had given
notice on the previous Sunday that Friday would be the Feast of St.
Thomas the Apostle, and that there would be service at eleven o'clock in
the church. This and other similar proceedings constituted in the
Colonel's view a strong presumption that the Vicar was a concealed
Papist, if not a Jesuit; and Parkins, who could not very readily follow
the Colonel in this region, did not disagree with him. In fact, they got
on so well together in the morning that there was no talk on either side
of their separating after lunch.

Both continued to play well during the afternoon, or, at least, well
enough to make them forget everything else until the light began to fail
them. Not until then did Parkins remember that he had meant to do some
more investigating at the preceptory; but it was of no great importance,
he reflected. One day was as good as another; he might as well go home
with the Colonel.

As they turned the corner of the house, the Colonel was almost knocked
down by a boy who rushed into him at the very top of his speed, and
then, instead of running away, remained hanging on to him and panting.
The first words of the warrior were naturally those of reproof and
objurgation, but he very quickly discerned that the boy was almost
speechless with fright. Inquiries were useless at first. When the boy
got his breath he began to howl, and still clung to the Colonel's legs.
He was at last detached, but continued to howl.

"What in the world _is_ the matter with you? What have you been up to?
What have you seen?" said the two men.

"Ow, I seen it wive at me out of the winder," wailed the boy, "and I
don't like it."

"What window?" said the irritated Colonel. "Come, pull yourself
together, my boy."

"The front winder it was, at the 'otel," said the boy.

At this point Parkins was in favour of sending the boy home, but the
Colonel refused; he wanted to get to the bottom of it, he said; it was
most dangerous to give a boy such a fright as this one had had, and if
it turned out that people had been playing jokes, they should suffer for
it in some way. And by a series of questions he made out this story: The
boy had been playing about on the grass in front of the Globe with some
others; then they had gone home to their teas, and he was just going,
when he happened to look up at the front winder and see it a-wiving at
him. _It_ seemed to be a figure of some sort, in white as far as he
knew--couldn't see its face; but it wived at him, and it warn't a right
thing--not to say not a right person. Was there a light in the room? No,
he didn't think to look if there was a light. Which was the window? Was
it the top one or the second one? The seckind one it was--the big winder
what got two little uns at the sides.

"Very well, my boy," said the Colonel, after a few more questions. "You
run away home now. I expect it was some person trying to give you a
start. Another time, like a brave English boy, you just throw a
stone--well, no, not that exactly, but you go and speak to the waiter,
or to Mr. Simpson, the landlord, and--yes--and say that I advised you to
do so."

The boy's face expressed some of the doubt he felt as to the likelihood
of Mr. Simpson's lending a favourable ear to his complaint, but the
Colonel did not appear to perceive this, and went on:

"And here's a sixpence--no, I see it's a shilling--and you be off home,
and don't think any more about it."

The youth hurried off with agitated thanks, and the Colonel and Parkins
went round to the front of the Globe and reconnoitred. There was only
one window answering to the description they had been hearing.

"Well, that's curious," said Parkins; "it's evidently my window the lad
was talking about. Will you come up for a moment, Colonel Wilson? We
ought to be able to see if anyone has been taking liberties in my room."

They were soon in the passage, and Parkins made as if to open the door.
Then he stopped and felt in his pockets.

"This is more serious than I thought," was his next remark. "I remember
now that before I started this morning I locked the door. It is locked
now, and, what is more, here is the key." And he held it up. "Now," he
went on, "if the servants are in the habit of going into one's room
during the day when one is away, I can only say that--well, that I don't
approve of it at all." Conscious of a somewhat weak climax, he busied
himself in opening the door (which was indeed locked) and in lighting
candles. "No," he said, "nothing seems disturbed."

"Except your bed," put in the Colonel.

"Excuse me, that isn't my bed," said Parkins. "I don't use that one. But
it does look as if someone had been playing tricks with it."

It certainly did: the clothes were bundled up and twisted together in a
most tortuous confusion. Parkins pondered.

"That must be it," he said at last: "I disordered the clothes last night
in unpacking, and they haven't made it since. Perhaps they came in to
make it, and that boy saw them through the window; and then they were
called away and locked the door after them. Yes, I think that must be
it."

"Well, ring and ask," said the Colonel, and this appealed to Parkins as
practical.

The maid appeared, and, to make a long story short, deposed that she had
made the bed in the morning when the gentleman was in the room, and
hadn't been there since. No, she hadn't no other key. Mr. Simpson he
kep' the keys; he'd be able to tell the gentleman if anyone had been up.

This was a puzzle. Investigation showed that nothing of value had been
taken, and Parkins remembered the disposition of the small objects on
tables and so forth well enough to be pretty sure that no pranks had
been played with them. Mr. and Mrs. Simpson furthermore agreed that
neither of them had given the duplicate key of the room to any person
whatever during the day. Nor could Parkins, fair-minded man as he was,
detect anything in the demeanour of master, mistress, or maid that
indicated guilt. He was much more inclined to think that the boy had
been imposing on the Colonel.

The latter was unwontedly silent and pensive at dinner and throughout
the evening. When he bade good night to Parkins, he murmured in a gruff
undertone:

"You know where I am if you want me during the night."

"Why, yes, thank you, Colonel Wilson, I think I do; but there isn't much
prospect of my disturbing you, I hope. By the way," he added, "did I
show you that old whistle I spoke of? I think not. Well, here it is."

The Colonel turned it over gingerly in the light of the candle.

"Can you make anything of the inscription?" asked Parkins, as he took it
back.

"No, not in this light. What do you mean to do with it?"

"Oh, well, when I get back to Cambridge I shall submit it to some of the
archologists there, and see what they think of it; and very likely, if
they consider it worth having, I may present it to one of the museums."

"'M!" said the Colonel. "Well, you may be right. All I know is that, if
it were mine, I should chuck it straight into the sea. It's no use
talking, I'm well aware, but I expect that with you it's a case of live
and learn. I hope so, I'm sure, and I wish you a good night."

He turned away, leaving Parkins in act to speak at the bottom of the
stair, and soon each was in his own bedroom.

By some unfortunate accident, there were neither blinds nor curtains to
the windows of the Professor's room. The previous night he had thought
little of this, but to-night there seemed every prospect of a bright
moon rising to shine directly on his bed, and probably wake him later
on. When he noticed this he was a good deal annoyed, but, with an
ingenuity which I can only envy, he succeeded in rigging up, with the
help of a railway-rug, some safety-pins, and a stick and umbrella, a
screen which, if it only held together, would completely keep the
moonlight off his bed. And shortly afterwards he was comfortably in that
bed. When he had read a somewhat solid work long enough to produce a
decided wish for sleep, he cast a drowsy glance round the room, blew out
the candle, and fell back upon the pillow.

He must have slept soundly for an hour or more, when a sudden clatter
shook him up in a most unwelcome manner. In a moment he realized what
had happened: his carefully-constructed screen had given way, and a very
bright frosty moon was shining directly on his face. This was highly
annoying. Could he possibly get up and reconstruct the screen? or could
he manage to sleep if he did not?

For some minutes he lay and pondered over the possibilities; then he
turned over sharply, and with all his eyes open lay breathlessly
listening. There had been a movement, he was sure, in the empty bed on
the opposite side of the room. To-morrow he would have it moved, for
there must be rats or something playing about in it. It was quiet now.
No! the commotion began again. There was a rustling and shaking: surely
more than any rat could cause.

I can figure to myself something of the Professor's bewilderment and
horror, for I have in a dream thirty years back seen the same thing
happen; but the reader will hardly, perhaps, imagine how dreadful it was
to him to see a figure suddenly sit up in what he had known was an empty
bed. He was out of his own bed in one bound, and made a dash towards the
window, where lay his only weapon, the stick with which he had propped
his screen. This was, as it turned out, the worst thing he could have
done, because the personage in the empty bed, with a sudden smooth
motion, slipped from the bed and took up a position, with outspread
arms, between the two beds, and in front of the door. Parkins watched it
in a horrid perplexity. Somehow, the idea of getting past it and
escaping through the door was intolerable to him; he could not have
borne--he didn't know why--to touch it; and as for its touching him, he
would sooner dash himself through the window than have that happen. It
stood for the moment in a band of dark shadow, and he had not seen what
its face was like. Now it began to move, in a stooping posture, and all
at once the spectator realized, with some horror and some relief, that
it must be blind, for it seemed to feel about it with its muffled arms
in a groping and random fashion. Turning half away from him, it became
suddenly conscious of the bed he had just left, and darted towards it,
and bent over and felt the pillows in a way which made Parkins shudder
as he had never in his life thought it possible. In a very few moments
it seemed to know that the bed was empty, and then, moving forward into
the area of light and facing the window, it showed for the first time
what manner of thing it was.

Parkins, who very much dislikes being questioned about it, did once
describe something of it in my hearing, and I gathered that what he
chiefly remembers about it is a horrible, an intensely horrible, face
_of crumpled linen_. What expression he read upon it he could not or
would not tell, but that the fear of it went nigh to maddening him is
certain.

But he was not at leisure to watch it for long. With formidable
quickness it moved into the middle of the room, and, as it groped and
waved, one corner of its draperies swept across Parkins's face. He could
not--though he knew how perilous a sound was--he could not keep back a
cry of disgust, and this gave the searcher an instant clue. It leapt
towards him upon the instant, and the next moment he was half-way
through the window backwards, uttering cry upon cry at the utmost pitch
of his voice, and the linen face was thrust close into his own. At
this, almost the last possible second, deliverance came, as you will
have guessed: the Colonel burst the door open, and was just in time to
see the dreadful group at the window. When he reached the figures only
one was left. Parkins sank forward into the room in a faint, and before
him on the floor lay a tumbled heap of bed-clothes.

Colonel Wilson asked no questions, but busied himself in keeping
everyone else out of the room and in getting Parkins back to his bed;
and himself, wrapped in a rug, occupied the other bed for the rest of
the night. Early on the next day Rogers arrived, more welcome than he
would have been a day before, and the three of them held a very long
consultation in the Professor's room. At the end of it the Colonel left
the hotel door carrying a small object between his finger and thumb,
which he cast as far into the sea as a very brawny arm could send it.
Later on the smoke of a burning ascended from the back premises of the
Globe.

Exactly what explanation was patched up for the staff and visitors at
the hotel I must confess I do not recollect. The Professor was somehow
cleared of the ready suspicion of delirium tremens, and the hotel of the
reputation of a troubled house.

There is not much question as to what would have happened to Parkins if
the Colonel had not intervened when he did. He would either have fallen
out of the window or else lost his wits. But it is not so evident what
more the creature that came in answer to the whistle could have done
than frighten. There seemed to be absolutely nothing material about it
save the bed-clothes of which it had made itself a body. The Colonel,
who remembered a not very dissimilar occurrence in India, was of opinion
that if Parkins had closed with it it could really have done very
little, and that its one power was that of frightening. The whole thing,
he said, served to confirm his opinion of the Church of Rome.

There is really nothing more to tell, but, as you may imagine, the
Professor's views on certain points are less clear cut than they used to
be. His nerves, too, have suffered: he cannot even now see a surplice
hanging on a door quite unmoved, and the spectacle of a scarecrow in a
field late on a winter afternoon has cost him more than one sleepless
night.




[End of "Oh, Whistle, and I'll come to you, My Lad", by M. R. James]
