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THE SCHOOL GHOST A TRUE STORY IN TWO CHAPTERS

Chapter I. The Story

Ferriby had broken up. The rats and mice were having their innings in the schoolrooms, and the big bell was getting rusty for want of exercise. The door of the Lower Third had not had a panel kicked out of it for a whole week, and Dr. Allsuch’s pictures and sofas and piano were all stacked up in the Detention Room while their proper quarters underwent a “doing-up.”

There was no mistake about the school having broken up. And yet, if it was so, how came we all to be there this Christmas week, instead of sitting at our own firesides in the bosoms of our own families, anywhere but at Ferriby?

When I say all, I mean all in Jolliffe’s House; the others had cleared out. Bull’s was empty, and Wragg’s, across the quadrangle, had not a ghost of a fellow left. Nor had the doctor’s. Every other house was shut up, but Jolliffe’s was as full up as the night before a county match, and no sign of an exodus.

Of course the reader guesses the reason at once!

“I know,” says one virtuous youth; “they’d all been detained for bad conduct, and stopped their holidays!”

Wrong, my exemplary one! Jolliffe’s was the best behaved house in Ferriby, though I say so who should not. But any one could tell you so. For every thousand lines of imposition the other houses had to turn out Jolliffe’s only had a hundred, and for every half-dozen canes worn out on the horny palms of Bull’s and Wragg’s, one was quite enough for us.

No; the fact was, one of our fellows had had scarlet fever a fortnight before the holidays, and as he was in and out with us for some days before it was discovered, sleeping in our dormitory, and sitting next to us in class, it was a settled thing we were all in for it.

So the school was suddenly broken up, the other houses all packed off, the sickly ones among us–there were only one or two–removed to the infirmary, and the rest of us, under the charge of Jolliffe himself, invited to make the best of a bad job, and enjoy ourselves as well as we could, with the promise that if in three weeks no one else showed signs of knocking up, we should be allowed to go home.

Of course, we were awfully sold at first, and by no means in an amiable frame of mind. It is no joke to be done out of Christmas at home. What a dolt that Gilks was to get scarlet fever! Why could he not have waited till he got home?

But after a day or two we shook down, as British boys will, to our lot. After all, it was only a case of putting off our holiday, and meanwhile we were allowed to do anything we liked, short of setting the place on fire, or kicking up a row near the infirmary.

There were enough of us to turn out two good teams at football, or to run a big paper-chase across country, or get up a grand concert of an evening; and not too many of us to crowd into the long dormitory, where, for all we were interfered with, we might have prolonged our bolster matches “from eve to dewy morn.”

In time we came to look upon our confinement as rather a spree than otherwise, and this feeling was considerably heightened by the arrival of several hampers at the beginning of Christmas week, including a magnificent one from Dr. Allsuch himself, along with a message bidding us be sure and have a merry Christmas. We voted the doctor a brick, and drank his health in ginger beer, with great enthusiasm, to the toast of “Dr. Allsuch, and all such bricks!”

It was on Christmas Eve, after a specially grand banquet off the contents of one of these hampers, that we crowded round the big common-hall fire in a very complacent frame of mind, uncommonly well satisfied and comfortable within and without.

“I don’t know,” said Lamb meditatively, cracking a walnut between his finger and thumb, and slowly skinning it–“I don’t know; Gilks might have done us a worse turn after all.”

“I rather wish he’d make a yearly thing of it,” said Ellis. “They say he’s pulled through all right.”

“Oh yes, he’s all right! and so are the other three. In fact, French and Addley never had scarlet fever at all. It was a false alarm.”

“Well,” said Lamb, “I’m jolly glad of it! I wouldn’t have cared for any of them to die, you know.”

Lamb said this in a tone as if we should all be rather surprised to hear him say so.

“Nobody ever did die at Ferriby, did they?” said Jim Sparrow, the youngest and tenderest specimen we had at Jolliffe’s.

It was rather cheek of a kid like Jim to interpose at all in a conversation of his seniors, and it seemed as if he was going to get snubbed by receiving no reply, when Fergus suddenly took the thing up.

“Eh, young Jim Sparrow, what’s that you’re saying?”

Fergus was the wag of our house–indeed, he was the only Irishman we could boast of, and the fact of his being an Irishman always made us inclined to laugh whenever he spoke. We could see now by the twinkle in his eye that he was going to let off the steam at Jim Sparrow’s expense.

“I said,” replied Jim, blushing rather to find everybody listening to him, “nobody’s ever died at Ferriby, have they?”

Fergus gazed at him in astonishment.

“What!” exclaimed he, “you mean to say you never heard of poor Bubbles?”

“Bubbles? No,” replied Jim, looking rather scared.

“Just fancy that!” said Fergus, turning round to us; “never heard of Bubbles!”

Of course we, who saw what the wag was driving at, looked rather surprised and a little mysterious.

“What was it?” inquired Jim Sparrow, looking half ashamed of himself.

“Eh? Well, if you never heard it, I’d better not tell you. It’s not a nice story, is it, you fellows?”

“Horrible!” said Lamb, starting at another walnut.

“Oh, do tell me!” cried Jim eagerly, “I’m so fond of stories;” and he settled himself back in his chair rather uneasily, and tried to look as if it was all good fun.

“Well, if you do want it I’ll tell you; but don’t blame me if it upsets you, that’s all!” replied the irrepressible Fergus.

Jim looked as heroic as he could, and wished he had never asked to be enlightened on the subject of Bubbles.

Fergus refreshed himself with an orange, stuck his feet into the fender, and began in a solemn voice.

“I suppose, Jim Sparrow, if you have never heard about Bubbles, you really don’t know the history of the school at all. You don’t even know how it came to be called Ferriby?”

“No,” responded Jim, keeping his eyes on the fire.

“Ferriby is derived from two Anglo-Saxon words,” proceeded Fergus, “which you may have heard–”fire’ and “boy.’ Now I’ll tell you about Bubbles!”

There was something very mysterious about the manner in which Fergus uttered these words, and we listened for what was to come almost as breathlessly as Jim Sparrow.

“It was early in this century,” he said, “that a boy came to this school called Bubbles. No one knew where he came from. He had no parents, and never went home for the holidays. He was about your age, Sparrow, and just your build, and he was in the Lower Fourth.”

“I’m going to be moved up this Christmas,” interposed Jim hurriedly.

“Are you? So was Bubbles going to be moved up when what I’m going to tell you happened!”

It was getting dark, and for the last few minutes all the light in the room had been caused by a jet of gas in the coals. That jet now went out suddenly, leaving us in nearly total darkness.

“It was a Christmas Eve. Everybody else had gone home for the holidays, and Bubbles was the only boy left in the school–Bubbles and a master whose name I won’t mention.”

“He was the Detention Master, wasn’t he?” inquired Lamb’s voice.

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