oud laugh. "It would
require a ghost with some pluck to face her."

"What time did the spectre appear last night?" said Tom Weston, who saw
that mischief was brewing, and was anxious to turn the subject into
another channel. "I should like amazingly to see it."

"That's all bosh!" said Bob. "You would soon cut and run. But if you are
in earnest, come with me to the cross-road, and I promise to introduce
you to the old gentleman. The clock has just struck eleven, he will be
taking his rounds by the time we get there."

The young man drew back. "Not in your company, Mason. It would be enough
to raise the Devil."

"Well, please yourself. I knew you would not have pluck enough. I shall
go, however. I want to have a few minutes' conversation with the ghost
before he appears in public. Perhaps he will show me where to find a
hidden treasure. Good-by, mother; shall I give your compliments to the
old gentleman? Love, I know, is out of the question. You had none to
spare for him when he was alive."

"Away with you, for a blasphemous reprobate that you are!" cried the
angry old woman, shaking her crutch at him.

"Mammy's own darling son!" cried the disgusting wretch, as with a loud
oath he sprang through the open door and vanished into the dark night.

The men looked significantly at each other, and a little tailor rose
cautiously and shut the door.

"Why do you do that?" said Tom Weston.

"To keep out bad company."

"It is stifling hot!" cried Tom, kicking it open with his foot. "I shall
die without a whiff of fresh air."

"But the ghost?" and the little tailor shook his head mysteriously.

"Does not belong to any of us," rejoined Tom. "My relations are all
sound sleepers, good honest people, who are sure to rest in their
graves. There is a storm brewing," he continued, walking to the open
door; "that thunder-cloud will burst over our heads in a few minutes,
and Master Bob will get a good drenching."

"It's awesome to hear him talk, as he do, of his feather's spirit,"
said honest Josh. "It makes my flesh creep upon my bones."

"Provided there's any truth in his statements," said a carpenter, who
had been smoking his pipe by the table, and silently listening to the
conversation,--"which I much doubt. For my own part I would be more
afraid of meeting Robert Mason alone in that dark lane, than any
visitant from another world. I don't believe in ghosts. I never saw one,
and never met with any person on whose word yo