more light, or at any rate less darkness, for a fine moon streamed through skylight and staircase window, and spectre forms were drifting downward through its pallid rays. It was still the day of the obsolete nightshirt, and that ghostly garment was at its best or worst upon a moonlight night. Some boys had tucked theirs into their trousers; a few had totally eclipsed themselves in jackets or dressing-gowns as well; but the majority came as they had risen from their beds, white and whispering, tittering a little, but not too convincingly at first, and for the most part as ignorant of what had happened as Jan himself.
At the foot of the stairs, on the moonlit threshold of the open door into the quad, two portentous figures dammed the descending stream of unpresentable attire: one was the Spook, his master's gown (and little else that could be seen) covering his meagre anatomy, but in his hand a Kaffir battle-axe which usually hung over Heriot's stairs. His companion was the redoubtable Sprawson, a pioneer in striped pyjamahs, armed for his part with a carving-knife of prodigious length which was daily used in hall.
"My good boys!" expostulated the Spook. "My good boys! I wish you'd go back to your beds and leave the intruder to me!"
"We couldn't do that, sir," said one or two. "We'll stand by you, sir, never fear!"
"My brave lads! I wish you wouldn't, I do really. He'll have short shrift from me, I promise you. Short shrift"
"Silence!" hissed Sprawson, as a titter spread on the stairs. "I'll murder the fellow who laughs again!" and his carving-knife filled with moonlight from haft to point. "It's no laughing matter. They've been at Mr. Heriot's silver; the dining-room's ransacked. I heard them come
