I knew it was only rain; but supposing it _had_ been somebody--a thief, for instance, or--or--Bubbles come to look after his legs! I do not know what evil genius put the thought of Bubbles into my head.
But once in, I could not get it out.

Downstairs before the big fire I had laughed as loud as any one, and been as sure as sure could be that Fergus's story was all an invention of his fertile imagination.

But, somehow, now that the lights were out, and the fellows all asleep, and the wind was moaning outside, and I lay sleepless on my bed, it did not seem so utterly preposterous.
Not that I believed in ghosts.

Oh dear no.

I hoped I was not such a fool as that, but supposing-- That rain again at the window! Why couldn't it stop startling a fellow in that way?
Yes, supposing Fergus's story had been founded on fact, what a dreadful end to a boy Bubbles's end must have been! "And they do say,"-- the words seemed to echo in my ears--"that every Christmas Eve he re-visits Ferriby, and tries to get down the chimney in search of his lost legs." Ugh! Why did not some of the fellows wake up?
How unnaturally still they all were! I would have given all my pocket-money to two of them to start another steeplechase that moment over the beds.