"Feeling better?"
"Where is it? Oh, God! Where is it?" cried the boy.
"It will come in here and kill us as it killed that--that--
down stairs."
"It can't get in," Bridge assured him. "I've locked the
door and pushed the bed in front of it. Gad! I feel like
an old maid looking under the bed for burglars."
From the hall came a sudden clanking of the chain
accompanied by a loud pounding upon the bare floor.
With a scream the youth leaped to his feet and almost
threw himself upon Bridge. His arms were about the
man's neck, his face buried in his shoulder.
"Oh, don't--don't let it get me!" he cried.
"Brace up, son," Bridge admonished him. "Didn't I
tell you that it can't get in?"
"How do you know it can't get in?" whimpered the
youth. "It's the thing that murdered the man down stairs
--it's the thing that murdered the Squibbs--right here in
this room. It got in to them--what is to prevent its get-
ting in to us. What are doors to such a THING?"
"Come! come! now," Bridge tried to soothe him. "You
have a case of nerves. Lie down here on this bed and
try to sleep. Nothing shall harm you, and when you
wake up it will be morning and you'll laugh at your
fears.
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