TWO men in a smoking—room were talking of their private school days. 'At our school,' said A., 'we had a ghost's footmark on the staircase. What was it like? Oh, very unconvincing. Just the shape of a shoe, with a square toe, if I remember right. The staircase was a stone one. I never heard any story about the thing. That seems odd when you come to think of it. Why didn't somebody invent one, I wonder?'
'You can never tell with little boys. They have a mytho logy of their own. There's a subject for you, by the way, The- Folklore of Private Schools.'
'Yes: the crop is rather scanty, though. I imagine, if you were to investigate the cycle of ghost stories, for instance, which the boys at private schools tell each other, they would all turn out to be highly—compressed versions of stories out of books.'
'Nowadays the Strand and Pearson's* and so on, would be extensively drawn upon.'
'No doubt: they weren't born or thought of in my time. Let's see—I wonder if I can remember the staple ones that I was told. First, there was the house with a room in which a series of people insisted on passing a night; and each of them in the morning was found kneeling in a corner and had just time to say “I've seen it”, and died.'
'Wasn't that the house in Berkeley Square?'
I dare say it was. Then there was the man who heard a noise in the passage at night, opened his door, and saw someone crawling towards him on all fours with his eye hanging out on his cheek. There was besides, let me think, yes: the room where a man was found dead in bed with a horseshoe mark on his forehead, and the floor under the bed was covered with marks of horseshoes also; I don't know why. Also there was the lady who on locking her bedroom door in a strange house heard a thin voice among the bed curtains say, “Now we're shut in for the night.” None of