Fellow Passenger Read Free Page A

The lights were all off except for a single naked bulb at the foot of the stairs. The Government had certainly put the interest of the taxpayer before the comfort of its servants.
     
    There was no object in hesitation or reconnaissance, so I ran silently up two flights with dressing-gown flying. On the second floor, at the end of the landing, I saw a small, mean staircase which had to be that leading to the attics; but to reach it I had to pass an open door, flooding a strip of passage with light. I locked myself in a bathroom, peeping out at intervals, until the occupant of the room returned and went to bed.
     
    Keeping my feet close against the wall to avoid the abominable creaking of the stairs, I went up to the attics. So far all had been so easy that I began to feel light-heartedly sure of success. I turned right and opened the third door to the right and found myself in just such a room as my father had described. Below the little dormer window was a parapet.
     
    There were no bulbs in any of the lighting fixtures on the attic floor. My torch showed that the room was packed with junk - all the utterly valueless debris of a home which the old ladies had stowed away and no one, after death and auction, had ever bothered to clear out. The fireplace was there, but covered by a ruinous old dresser in front of which were piled fenders, fire-irons and decayed basket chairs from the garden.
     
    I could only go slowly and hope that there was a heavy sleeper underneath. I managed to clear all the odd lots to the other side of the room in reasonable silence, but then came the dresser. The sole practical method of shifting that was to lift one end out and drop it, and then the other end out and drop it. The lifting and dropping, six inches at a time, made no noise, but the squeaking and scratching of the legs on the opposite side were intolerable.
     
    I rushed the last of the job before anyone could come and investigate, and shoved my arm up the chimney. Nothing. Not even any soot. I looked up it and shone my torch up it. Still nothing. I was bitterly, desperately disappointed, but had, as it were, no time to be. Steps were climbing the stairs. I took refuge under the pile of basketwork.
     
    Two men, one young and one younger, came straight to my attic and dropped something which they were carrying on the floor.
     
    ‘It’s not usually in this room,’ said a positive voice.
     
    ‘The furniture has been moved,’ answered the other in an excited half-whisper.
     
    Well, it had. I did not see why he should make such a point of it.
     
    ‘Peter was up here looking for owls or rats or something,’ explained the younger.
     
    ‘There aren’t any. The War Office gassed ‘em. And since the Ministry took this place over, the food has been too bloody awful to tempt ‘em back. Now, we do not want to inhibit the phenomena, so we’ll leave this and clear out. It will record the temperature readings for the next two hours. Meanwhile we can sit in my room and note the times of any audible disturbances.’
     
    That was the elder man, and, though an enthusiast, he sounded responsible. The other had the infallibility of youth.
     
    ‘Note my backside!’ he said. ‘If you can prove (a) that there are poltergeists, ( b ) that their action is accompanied by a drop in temperature, bang goes the second law of thermodynamics! ‘
     
    ‘A mere working hypothesis,’ answered the elder. ‘We all know we’ve got the universe upside down, only none of us dare say so.’
     
    Instead of noting disturbances they spent the next quarter of an hour arguing about the second law of thermodynamics. It was interesting. I love to listen to the learned so long as they avoid algebra; and I never knew that the case for poltergeists was quite so good. I concentrated furiously on their debate, for I had to keep my mind from brooding on the probability of a sneeze. The dust under those basket chairs was getting into my nose.
     
    At last they set