Tom, Dick and Harry | Page 2

were gone. The bed itself was tumbled, and had evidently been
lain in; but the sleeper had apparently risen hurriedly, partly dressed
himself, and gone out.
If only I could have got my tongue loose from the roof of the mouth to
which it was cleaving, I should have yelled aloud at this awful
discovery. As it was I yelled silently. For of all terrors upon earth,
sleep-walking was the one I dreaded the most. Not that I had ever
walked myself, or, indeed, enjoyed the embarrassing friendship of any
one who did. But I had read the books and knew all about it. I would
sooner have faced a dozen ghosts than a somnambulist.
I had no doubt in my mind that the Dux's empty bed was to be
accounted for in this uncanny manner, and that the shot and yell were
intimately connected with his mysterious disappearance. Now I thought
of it, he had not been himself for some time. For a whole week he had
not licked me. Ever since he had got his entrance scholarship at Low
Heath he had been queerer than ever. He had not broken any rule of
importance; he had been on almost friendly terms with Faulkner; he
had even ceased to plot the assassination of Plummer. He was evidently
in a low state, and suffering from unusual nervous excitement, thus
violently to interrupt the usual tenor of his way; and, as I knew, such a
state lends itself readily to the grisly practice of somnambulism.
What was to be done? Yell? I couldn't do it for the life of me. Get up
and look for him? Wild horses could not have dragged a toe of me out
of bed. Stay where I was till the unearthly truant returned? No, thank
you. At the bare notion my rigid muscles relaxed, my erect hair lay
down, and I collapsed, a limp heap, on to the pillow, with every
available sheet and blanket drawn over my tightly closed eyes.
And yet, in my unimpassioned moments, I do not think I was a

notorious coward. I had stood up to Faulkner's round-arms without
pads, and actually blocked one of them once, and that was more than
some of the fellows could say, I could take my header into the pool
from the same step as Parkin. And once I had not run away from Hector
when he broke loose from his kennel. Even now, but for the dim
recollection of that awful automatic machine, I might have pulled
myself together sufficiently to strike a light and jog my next-bed
neighbour into wakefulness.
But somehow my nerves had suffered a shock, and since there was no
one near to witness my poltroonery, and as, moreover, the night was
chilly enough to warrant reasonable precautions against cold, I
preferred on the whole to keep my head under the clothes, and drop for
a season, so to speak, below the surface of human affairs.
But existence below the sheets, when prolonged for several minutes, is
apt to pall upon a body, and in due time I had to face the problem
whether, after all, the vague terrors without were not preferable to the
certain asphyxia within.
I had put my nose cautiously outside for the purpose of considering the
point, when my eyes, thus uncovered, chanced to fasten on the door.
As they did so paralysis once more seized my frame; for, at that precise
moment, the door softly opened, and a figure, tall, pale, and familiar,
glided noiselessly into the dormitory.
It was Tempest. He stood for a moment with the moonlight on him, and
glanced nervously round. Then, apparently satisfied that slumber
reigned supreme, he stepped cautiously to his deserted couch. My eyes
followed him as the eyes of the fascinated dove follow the serpent. I
saw him divest himself of his semi-toilet, and then solemnly wind up
his watch, after which he slipped beneath the clothes, and all was silent.
I lay there, moving not a muscle, till the breathing of the truant grew
long and heavy, and finally settled down to the regular cadence of sleep.
Then I breathed once more myself; my staring eyes gradually drooped;
my mind wandered over a large variety of topics, and finally relapsed

into the happy condition of thinking of nothing at all.
When I awoke next morning, in obedience to the summons of the bell,
the first thing I was aware of was that Tempest was complacently
whistling a popular air as he performed his toilet.
"Poor Dux!" thought I, "he little dreams what a terrible night he has had.
Good morning, Dux," I said deferentially.
Tempest went on brushing his hair till he had finished his tune, and
then honoured me with a glance and a nod.
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