Cassell - 05 - Billy Bunter's Christmas Party by Frank Richards

Author:Frank Richards [Richards, Frank]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER XX

THE GHOST OF TANKERTON HALL

HARRY WHARTON and Co. stood quite still, staring into the darkness of the underground passage.

Their hearts were thumping.

No member of the party was afflicted with “nerves.” None of them had the smallest spot of superstition. But there was something so strange, so uncanny, in that unexpected sound from the gloom, that it sent a startled thrill through every heart, as when they had heard it in the Oak Room.

“What—what was that?” Bob spoke in almost a whisper.

“Somebody’s here—,” muttered Harry.

“An echo—!” said Squiff.

“That wasn’t an echo—Oh! Listen!”

The sound was repeated—a low, groaning sound, faintly from the gloom. Nothing could be seen—the darkness was impenetrable. But they knew that there was someone—or something!—in the dark passage, and not far away from them.

“Another match, Bob—quick!” breathed Wharton.

“Quick, old chap,” said Squiff.

There was a scratch of a match. Bob held it up, and the little flame flickered in the gloom. It made hardly a patch of light in the dark passage. But it enabled the juniors to see—and they stared round, hardly knowing what they expected to meet their eyes.

But nothing met their eyes except the level brick floor and the brick arch over their heads. They were alone in the underground passage.

Bob Cherry struck another match, and another. But there was nothing to be seen. They looked at one another with startled eyes.

“Must have been some sort of an echo,” said Squiff, at last.

Harry Wharton shook his head.

“It wasn’t an echo,” he said. “It wasn’t—the other night—.”

“There’s nobody here—.”

“Must be somebody—.”

“Well, who the dickens?” said Squiff. “And where?”

“The wherefulness is terrific.”

“It’s a trick!” growled Johnny Bull. “Same as the other night. We know people have been scared here by some ghost bunk. It’s some silly ass leg-pulling.”

“Why the thump should anybody be hanging about in this dismal hole, to play tricks?” said Squiff.

Johnny had no answer to make to that.

“Look here,” said Bob. “If that wasn’t some queer echo, somebody’s here trying to frighten us. We’re not going to be scared.”

“No fear!” agreed Squiff. “Push on—and if there’s anybody here playing tricks, we’ll jolly well scrag him. And if it’s the jolly old ghost of Tankerton Hall, we’ll be the chaps to put salt on his tail!”

“Come on!” said Bob.

He tramped on up the passage, scratching one match after another to light the way. His comrades followed him, alert and watchful, and perhaps not wholly easy in their minds.

“Oh! Look!” Johnny Bull fairly yelled. “Look!”

“Oh!”

“What—!”

“Good heavens!”

The Greyfriars fellows came to a sudden stop. They stared, with their eyes almost starting from their heads. In the light of a flickering match in Bob’s hand, a strange and startling vision met their eyes—a dim, shadowy figure, and a face white as chalk, half-hidden by bushy white eyebrows, a bushy white beard, and a tangle of white hair. It was the face of an old, old man, with no vestige of the colour of life, staring at them from the dark.

Spell-bound, rooted to the floor, the juniors stared at that strange and terrible vision from the darkness.

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