“Will he get over this next one?” thought Parkins; “it seems a little
higher than the others.” Yes; half climbing, half throwing himself, he
did get over, and fell all in a heap on the other side (the side
nearest to the spectator). There, as if really unable to get up again,
he remained crouching under the groyne, looking up in an attitude of
painful anxiety. So far no cause whatever for the fear of the runner had been shown; but
now there began to be seen, far up the shore, a little flicker of
something light-coloured moving to and fro with great swiftness and
irregularity. Rapidly growing larger, it, too, declared itself as a
figure in pale, fluttering draperies, ill-defined. There was something
about its motion which made Parkins very unwilling to see it at close
quarters. It would stop, raise arms, bow itself towards the sand, then
run stooping across the beach to the water-edge and back again; and
then, rising upright, once more continue its course forward at a speed
that was startling and terrifying. The moment came when the pursuer was
hovering about from left to right only a few yards beyond the groyne
where the runner lay in hiding. After two or three ineffectual castings
hither and thither it came to a stop, stood upright, with arms raised
high, and then darted straight forward towards the groyne. It was at this point that Parkins always failed in his resolution to
keep his eyes shut. With many misgivings as to incipient failure of
eyesight, overworked brain, excessive smoking, and so on, he finally
resigned himself to light his candle, get out a book, and pass the
night waking, rather than be tormented by this persistent panorama,
which he saw clearly enough could only be a morbid reflection of his
walk and his thoughts on that very day. The scraping of match on box and the glare of light must have startled
some creatures of the night—rats or what not—which he heard scurry
across the floor from the side of his bed with much rustling. Dear,
dear! the match is out! Fool that it is! But the second one burnt
better, and a candle and book were duly procured, over which Parkins
pored till sleep of a wholesome kind came upon him, and that in no long
space. For about the first time in his orderly and prudent life he
forgot to blow out the candle, and when he was called next morning at
eight there was still a flicker in the socket and a sad mess of
guttered grease on the top of the little table. After breakfast he was in his room, putting the finishing touches to
his golfing costume—fortune had again allotted the Colonel to him for a
partner—when one of the maids came in. “Oh, if you please,” she said, “would you like any extra blankets on
your bed, sir?”

“Ah! thank you,” said Parkins. “Yes, I think I should like one. It
seems likely to turn rather colder.”

In a very short time the maid was back with the blanket. “Which bed should I put it on, sir?” she asked. “What? Why, that one—the one I slept in last night,” he said, pointing
to it. “Oh yes! I beg your pardon, sir, but you seemed to have tried both of
“em; leastways, we had to make ’em both up this morning.”

“Really? How very absurd!” said Parkins. “I certainly never touched the
other, except to lay some things on it. Did it actually seem to have
been slept in?”

“Oh yes, sir!” said the maid. “Why, all the things was crumpled and
throwed about all ways, if you’ll excuse me, sir—quite as if anyone
’adn’t passed but a very poor night, sir.”

“Dear me,” said Parkins. “Well, I may have disordered it more than I
thought when I unpacked my things. I’m very sorry to have given you the
extra trouble, I’m sure. I expect a friend of mine soon, by the way—a
gentleman from Cambridge—to come and occupy it for a night or two. That
will be all right, I suppose, won’t it?”

“Oh yes, to be sure, sir. Thank you, sir. It’s no trouble, I’m sure,”
said the maid, and departed to giggle with her colleagues. Parkins set forth, with a stern determination to improve his game. I am glad to be able to report that he succeeded so far in this
enterprise that the Colonel, who had been rather repining at the
prospect of a second day’s play in his company, became quite chatty as
the morning advanced; and his voice boomed out over the flats, as
certain also of our own minor poets have said, “like some great bourdon
in a minster tower”. “Extraordinary wind, that, we had last night,” he said. “In my old home
we should have said someone had been whistling for it.”

“Should you, indeed!” said Parkins. “Is there a superstition of that
kind still current in your part of the country?”

“I don’t know about superstition,” said the Colonel. “They believe in
it all over Denmark and Norway, as well as on the Yorkshire coast; and
my experience is, mind you, that there’s generally something at the
bottom of what these country-folk hold to, and have held to for
generations. But it’s your drive” (or whatever it might have been: the
golfing reader will have to imagine appropriate digressions at the
proper intervals). When conversation was resumed, Parkins said, with a slight hesitancy:

“A propos of what you were saying just now, Colonel, I think I ought to
tell you that my own views on such subjects are very strong. I am, in
fact, a convinced disbeliever in what is called the ‘supernatural’.”

“What!” said the Colonel, “do you mean to tell me you don’t believe in
second-sight, or ghosts, or anything of that kind?”

“In nothing whatever of that kind,” returned Parkins firmly. “Well,” said the Colonel, “but it appears to me at that rate, sir, that
you must be little better than a Sadducee.”

Parkins was on the point of answering that, in his opinion, the
Sadducees were the most sensible persons he had ever read of in the Old
Testament; but, feeling some doubt as to whether much mention of them
was to be found in that work, he preferred to laugh the accusation off. “Perhaps I am,” he said; “but—Here, give me my cleek, boy!—Excuse me
one moment, Colonel.” A short interval. “Now, as to whistling for the
wind, let me give you my theory about it. The laws which govern winds
are really not at all perfectly known—to fisherfolk and such, of
course, not known at all. A man or woman of eccentric habits, perhaps,
or a stranger, is seen repeatedly on the beach at some unusual hour,
and is heard whistling. Soon afterwards a violent wind rises; a man who
could read the sky perfectly or who possessed a barometer could have
foretold that it would. The simple people of a fishing-village have no
barometers, and only a few rough rules for prophesying weather. What
more natural than that the eccentric personage I postulated should be
regarded as having raised the wind, or that he or she should clutch
eagerly at the reputation of being able to do so? Now, take last
night’s wind: as it happens, I myself was whistling. I blew a whistle
twice, and the wind seemed to come absolutely in answer to my call.