life. There are one or two I never leave at all. But you're not like
that; you'll get on quite well without me."

"Oh, no, I shan't," said Ernest Henry, and he clung very tightly and
was most affectionate. But he suddenly put his fingers to his bump, felt
the butter, and his chin shot up with self-satisfaction.

"To-morrow I'll get ever so much farther," he said.

"You'll behave, and not mind the beasts or the creatures?" his friend
said. "You must remember that it's not the slightest use to call for me.
You're on your own. Think of me, though. Don't forget me altogether. And
don't forget all the other world in your new discoveries. Look out of
the window sometimes. That will remind you more than anything."

He had kissed him, had put his hand for a moment on Ernest Henry's
curls, and was gone. Ernest Henry, his thumb in his mouth, was fast
asleep.


III

Suddenly, with a wild, agonising clutch at the heart, he was awake. He
was up in bed, his hands, clammy and hot, pressed together, his eyes
staring, his mouth dry. The yellow night-light was there, the bars of
gold upon the walls, the cool, grey shadows, the white square of the
window; but there, surely, also, were the beasts. He knew that they were
there--one crouching right away there in the shadow, all black, damp;
one crawling, blacker and damper, across the floor; one--yes, beyond
question--one, the blackest and cruellest of them all, there beneath the