“Well, I was groping down the valley, looking for that cow of Madison’s, and I had, I suppose, got half-way down, where a black craggy cliff juts into the ravine on the right, when I halted to have a pull at my flask.  I had my eye fixed at the time upon the projecting cliff I have mentioned, and noticed nothing unusual about it.  I then put up my flask and took a step or two forward, when in a moment there burst, apparently from the base of the rock, about eight feet from the ground and a hundred yards from me, a strange, lurid glare, flickering and oscillating, gradually dying away and then reappearing again.  No, no; I’ve seen many a glow-worm and firefly—­nothing of that sort.  There it was, burning away, and I suppose I gazed at it, trembling in every limb, for fully ten minutes.  Then I took a step forward, when instantly it vanished, vanished like a candle blown out.  I stepped back again; but it was some time before I could find the exact spot and position from which it was visible.  At last, there it was, the weird reddish light, flickering away as before.  Then I screwed up my courage, and made for the rock; but the ground was so uneven that it was impossible to steer straight; and though I walked along the whole base of the cliff, I could see nothing.  Then I made tracks for home; and I can tell you, boys, that, until you remarked it, I never knew it was raining, the whole way along.  But hollo! what’s the matter with Tom?”

What indeed?  Tom was now sitting with his legs over the side of the bunk, and his whole face betraying excitement so intense as to be almost painful.  “The fiend would have two eyes.  How many lights did you see, Dick?  Speak out!”

“Only one.”

“Hurrah!” cried Tom, “that’s better.”  Whereupon he kicked the blankets into the middle of the room, and began pacing up and down with long feverish strides.  Suddenly he stopped opposite Dick, and laid his hand upon his shoulder.  “I say, Dick, could we get to Sasassa Valley before sunrise?”

“Scarcely,” said Dick.

“Well, look here; we are old friends, Dick Wharton, you and I. Now don’t you tell any other man what you have told us, for a week.  You’ll promise that, won’t you?”

I could see by the look on Dick’s face as he acquiesced that he considered poor Tom to be mad; and indeed I was myself completely mystified by his conduct.  I had, however, seen so many proofs of my friend’s good sense and quickness of apprehension that I thought it quite possible that Wharton’s story had had a meaning in his eyes which I was too obtuse to take in.