Monday, September 23, 2013
Make this an interesting mix. There are few NSFW bits but take the chance they are funny..
Thursday, September 19, 2013
I attempted to get the show up and running yesterday, Well it worked but the was one bit I decided not to put in due to the fact that it was Not politically correct in any sense of the word. Also it was in very bad taste, not that I have anything in bad taste but It didnt belong in this show and will be put in more suitable show like a comedy hour. Hope everyone enjoys these offerings
Artist/Composer: Mike Y
Keywords: Nick Cave; Bad Seeds; Future Kings Of England; Evil twisted radio; Camper van Behtoven
'OH, WHISTLE, AND I'LL COME TO YOU, MY LAD'
'I suppose you will be getting away pretty soon, now Full Term is
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
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 tomorrow.'
'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
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
'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 doublebedded
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
'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,'
Rogers interrupted, with every appearance of an earnest desire for
accuracy. 'But I beg your pardon, Parkins: I'm stopping you.'
 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
'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 henlike, 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 doublebedded
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 ancien 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 tonight 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 ferae naturae. 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 archaeology. 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 groynings,
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 groynings 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 abrushing your coat just now there
was something 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
QUIS EST ISTE QUI VENIT
'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 seabird'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 is enough to tear the room to
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 towards 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, overworked 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
'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 Perkins. '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
When conversation was resumed, Parkins said, with a slight
'A propos 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
'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 fisherfolk 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
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 not talk on either side of their separating
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
'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
'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
They were soon in the passage, and Parkins made as if to open the
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
'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
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
The latter was unwontedly silent and pensive at dinner and
throughout the evening. When he bade goodnight 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
The Colonel turned it over gingerly in the light of the candle.
'Can you make anything of the inscription?' asked Parkins, as he took
'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 archaeologists 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
'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 tonight 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 to sleep, he cast a drowsy
glance round the room, blew out the candle, and fell back upon the
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 all the possibilities; then
he turned over sharply, and with 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. Tomorrow 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
and felt over 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
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 bedclothes of which it had made
itself a body. The Colonel, who remembered a not very dissimilar
occurrence in India, was of the 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.
From Ghost Stories of an Antiquary by M.R.JAMES
Thursday, September 5, 2013
Here are a few links to the shows I have posted online hopefully this works and works the first time.
Now these can be downloaded or steamed New shows will be uploaded next week.