He gave me the name of a well-known man who has beenburied for more than a quarter of a century， and showed mean ancient daguerreotype of that man in his prehistoric youth.
I had seen a steel engraving of him at the head of a doublevolume of Memoirs a month before， and I felt ancient beyondtelling.
The day shut in and the khansamah went to get me food. Hedid not go through the， pretense of calling it “khana”—man’svictuals. He said “ratub，” and that means， among other things，“grub”—dog’s rations. There was no insult in his choice of theterm. He had forgotten the other word， I suppose.
While he was cutting up the dead bodies of animals， I settledmyself down， after exploring the dak-bungalow. There werethree rooms， beside my own， which was a corner kennel，each giving into the other through dingy white doors fastenedwith long iron bars. The bungalow was a very solid one， butthe partition walls of the rooms were almost jerry-built intheir flimsiness. Every step or bang of a trunk echoed frommy room down the other three， and every footfall came backtremulously from the far walls. For this reason I shut the door.
There were no lamps—only candles in long glass shades. Anoil wick was set in the bathroom.
For bleak， unadulterated misery that dak-bungalow wasthe worst of the many that I had ever set foot in. There wasno fireplace， and the windows would not open； so a brazierof charcoal would have been useless. The rain and the windsplashed and gurgled and moaned round the house， and thetoddy palms rattled and roared. Half a dozen jackals wentthrough the compound singing， and a hyena stood afar offand mocked them. A hyena would convince a Sadducee ofthe Resurrection of the Dead—the worst sort of Dead. Thencame the ratub—a curious meal， half native and half Englishin composition—with the old khansamah babbling behindmy chair about dead and gone English people， and the windblowncandles playing shadow-bo-peep with the bed and themosquito-curtains. It was just the sort of dinner and evening tomake a man think of every single one of his past sins， and ofall the others that he intended to commit if he lived.
Sleep， for several hundred reasons， was not easy. The lampin the bathroom threw the most absurd shadows into the room，and the wind was beginning to talk nonsense.
Just when the reasons were drowsy with blood-sucking Iheard the regular—“Let-us-take-and-heave-him-over” gruntof doolie-bearers in the compound. First one doolie came in，then a second， and then a third. I heard the doolies dumped onthe ground， and the shutter in front of my door shook. “That’ssome one trying to come in，” I said. But no one spoke， and Ipersuaded myself that it was the gusty wind. The shutter ofthe room next to mine was attacked， flung back， and the innerdoor opened. “That’s some Sub-Deputy Assistant，” I said， “andhe has brought his friends with him. Now They’ll talk and spitand smoke for an hour.”
But there were no voices and no footsteps. No one wasputting his luggage into the next room. The door shut， and Ithanked Providence that I was to be left in peace. But I wascurious to know where the doolies had gone. I got out ofbed and looked into the darkness. There was never a sign ofa doolie. Just as I was getting into bed again， I heard， in thenext room， the sound that no man in his senses can possiblymistake—the whir of a billiard ball down the length of theslates when the striker is stringing for break. No other sound islike it. A minute afterwards there was another whir， and I gotinto bed. I was not frightened—indeed I was not. I was verycurious to know what had become of the doolies. I jumped intobed for that reason.
Next minute I heard the double click of a cannon and myhair sat up. It is a mistake to say that hair stands up. The skinof the head tightens and you can feel a faint， prickly， bristlingall over the scalp. That is the hair sitting up.
There was a whir and a click， and both sounds could onlyhave been made by one thing—a billiard ball. I argued thematter out at great length with myself； and the more I arguedthe less probable it seemed that one bed， one table， and twochairs—all the furniture of the room next to mine—couldso exactly duplicate the sounds of a game of billiards. Afteranother cannon， a three-cushion one to judge by the whir， Iargued no more. I had found my ghost and would have givenworlds to have escaped from that dak-bungalow. I listened，and with each listen the game grew clearer. There was whir onwhir and click on click. Sometimes there was a double clickand a whir and another click. Beyond any sort of doubt， peoplewere playing billiards in the next room. And the next roomwas not big enough to hold a billiard table！
Between the pauses of the wind I heard the game goforward—stroke after stroke. I tried to believe that I could nothear voices； but that attempt was a failure.
Do you know what fear is？ Not ordinary fear of insult，injury or death， but abject， quivering dread of something thatyou cannot see—fear that dries the inside of the mouth andhalf of the throat—fear that makes you sweat on the palmsof the hands， and gulp in order to keep the uvula at work？
This is a fine Fear—a great cowardice， and must be felt tobe appreciated. The very improbability of billiards in a dakbungalowproved the reality of the thing. No man—drunk orsober—could imagine a game at billiards， or invent the spittingcrack of a “screw-cannon.”