id the ghost; and with that he filled out a glass, and tossed
it off like a Christian.

"'Beamish!' says the ghost, smacking his lips.

"'The same,' says my father; 'and sure what's happened you has not spoiled
your taste.'

"'If you'd mix a little hot,' says the ghost, 'I'm thinking it would be
better,--the night is mighty sevare.'

"'Anything that your reverance pleases,' says my father, as he began to
blow up a good fire to boil the water.

"'And what news is stirring?' says the ghost.

"'Devil a word, your reverance,--your own funeral was the only thing doing
last week. Times is bad; except the measles, there's nothing in our parts.'

"'And we're quite dead hereabouts, too,' says the ghost.

"'There's some of us so, anyhow, says my father, with a sly look. 'Taste
that, your reverance.'

"'Pleasant and refreshing,' says the ghost; 'and now, Mr. Free, what do you
say to a little "spoilt five," or "beggar my neighbor"?'

"'What will we play for? 'says my father, for a thought just struck
him,--'may be it's some trick of the Devil to catch my soul.'

"'A pint of Beamish,' says the ghost.

"'Done!' says my father; 'cut for deal. The ace of clubs,--you have it.'

"Now the whole time the ghost was dealing the cards, my father never took
his eyes off of him, for he wasn't quite aisy in his mind at all; but when
he saw him turn up the trump, and take a strong drink afterwards, he got
more at ease, and began the game.

"How long they played it was never rightly known; but one thing is sure,
they drank a cruel deal of sperits. Three quart bottles my father brought
with him were all finished, and by that time his brain was so confused with
the liquor, and all he lost,--for somehow he never won a game,--that he was
getting very quarrelsome.

"'You have your own luck to it,' says he, at last.

"'True for you; and besides, we play a great deal where I come from.'

"'I've heard so,' says my father. 'I lead the knave, sir; spades! Bad cess
to it, lost again!'

"Now it was really very distressing; for by this time, though they only
began for a pint of Beamish, my father went on betting till he lost the
hearse and all the six horses, mourning cloaks, plumes, and everything.

"'Are you tired, Mr. Free? May be you'd like to stop?'

"'Stop! faith it's a nice time to stop; of course not.'

"'Well, what will ye play for now?'

"The way he said these woods brought a trembling all over my father, and
his blood curdl