There was little satisfaction in these questions, and they suddenly realized that they would have to hustle if they were to be on hand at roll-call, whereupon they hastily completed preparations and scudded out of the room, both in a very bad temper. After roll-call and morning service there were a few moments before breakfast. Savage came upon a group gathered about Gorman, who was telling of the mysterious disappearance of his watch. Just as he came up, Jim Wilson joined the group. “Lost your watch right out of your room?” he said. “Well, I lost mine last night, so I’m in the same scrape.” “Perhaps your ghost took it, Jim,” laughed one of the group of lads. “Ghost?” exclaimed Gorman. “Why, confound it! Savage said something about a ghost. I woke up in the night and found him standing in the middle of the floor, holding a lighted match over his head. He was white as a sheet.” “How about that, Savage?” demanded several of the boys, who had noted the approach of Joe. Savage shrugged his shoulders. “I wasn’t going to say anything about it,” he declared; “but I did see something in our room last night.” Jim Wilson grew excited. “What was it like?” he asked wildly, much to the amusement of some of the boys. “Was it tall and white, with long arms, and did it just seem to float along without making a sound?” “I couldn’t see it very plainly. It stood at the foot of the bed. But it was white.” “Did it groan just awful?” “No; but it uttered a doleful sigh.” “My ghost groaned. Gosh! It made my hair stand right up. Then when the thing lifted its arm I just gave a yell. It vanished quick enough. I got out of the room. Don’t know how I got out there. Don’t know how I opened the door. Perhaps it was open. I can’t say. Laugh, you fellows! I don’t care! I tell you there was something in my room!” “I suppose you fellows know,” said a tall, solemn lad, “that a chap committed suicide here at the academy once?” “No?” cried several. “Sure thing,” nodded the tall fellow. “Cut his throat. He was daffy.” “Dear me!” murmured Ted Smart, who had just strolled along in company with Dick Merriwell. “What a delightful way to kick the bucket! I admire his taste!” “But was there a fellow who really committed suicide here?” “Yes,” nodded Dick Merriwell. “My brother told me about it. His name was Bolt. The room he killed himself in was closed for a long time. Some of the fellows used to sneak into it nights when they wanted a little racket. There was a story about the room being haunted; but, of course, that was bosh.” “Was it?” said the tall fellow, in a queer way. “Perhaps it is the ghost of Cadet Bolt that is romping around here once more,” suggested a mocking lad. “What do you think, Smart?” questioned a boy with squinting eyes. “I have found it a bad practise to think,” answered Ted evasively. “It is wearing on the gray matter, don’t you know.” But they observed that Smart was not as lively and jocular as usual.