"He comes in and lies down in his place just as he used to lie," shivered Dan. "I asked Toby to sleep with me to-night, and Fred wouldn't let him. Fred ought to be ashamed; it's all his ill-nature. He's bigger than I am, one of the seniors, and he never cares whether he sleeps alone or not." "But, Dan, you should not get these fancies into your head about King. You know it's not true." "I tell you it is true. King's there. First of all, he stood at the foot of the bed and looked at me; and then, when I hid my face, I found he had got into it. He's lying there, just as he used to lie, his face turned to the wall." "To begin with, you couldn't see him--him, or any one else. It's too dark." "It's not dark. My room's lighter than this; it has a bigger window: and the sky was bright and the stars were out. Anyway, Johnny, it was light enough to see King--and there he was. Do you think I'd tell a lie over it?" I can't say I felt very comfortable myself. It's not pleasant to be woke up with this kind of thing at the top of a house when somebody's lying dead underneath. Dan's voice was enough to give one the shivers, let alone his words. Some stars came out, and I could see the outline of the furniture: or perhaps the stars had been shining all along; only, on first awaking, the eye is not accustomed to the darkness. "Try and go to sleep, Dan. You'll be all right in the morning." To go to sleep seemed, however, to be far enough from Dan's thoughts. After a bit of uneasy turning and trembling--and I'm sure any one would have said his legs had caught St. Vitus's dance--he gave sleep up as a bad job, and broke out now and again with all sorts of detached comments. I could only lie and listen. Wondered whether he should be seeing King always?--if so, would rather be dead. Wished he had not gone to sleep on that confounded bench outside St. Ann's Well--might have been at hand near King, and saved him, if he had not. It was that beastly bottled ale that made him. Wished bottled ale had not been invented. Wished he could wring Dance's neck--or Ferrar's--or that Wood'arts, whichever of the lot it was that had struck King. Knew it was one of the three. What on earth could have taken the Frogs to Malvern that day?--Wished every Frog ever born was hanged or drowned. Thought it must be Ferrar--else why had the fellow decamped? Thought the whole boiling of Frogs should be driven from the town--how dared they, the insolent charity beggars, have their school near the college school? Wondered what would be done to Ferrar if it was proved against him? Wished it had been Ferrar to fall down in place of King. Wished it had been himself (Dan) rather than King. Poor King!--who was always so gentle--and never gave offence to any of them--and was so happy with his hymns and his fancies, and his poetry!--and had said "Lord Bateman" for them that day when told to say it, and--and----