was a "Major," or that I was "old," or that I knew anything
about "it," or indeed what "it" referred to. The whole remark was
merely one of the usual conventional feelers to conversation,--a kind
of social preamble, quite common to our slangy camp intercourse.
Nevertheless, as I was always known as the Major, perhaps for no better
reason than that the speaker, an old journalist, was always called
Doctor, I recognized the fact so far as to kick aside an intervening
saddle, so that I could see the speaker's face on a level with my own,
and said nothing.

"About ghosts!" said the Doctor, after a pause, which nobody broke or
was expected to break. "Ghosts, sir! That's what we want to know.
What are we doing here in this blanked old mausoleum of Calaveras
County, if it isn't to find out something about 'em, eh?"

Nobody replied.

"Thar's that haunted house at Cave City. Can't be more than a mile or
two away, anyhow. Used to be just off the trail."

A dead silence.

The Doctor (addressing space generally) "Yes, sir; it WAS a mighty
queer story."

Still the same reposeful indifference. We all knew the Doctor's skill
as a raconteur; we all knew that a story was coming, and we all knew
that any interruption would be fatal. Time and time again, in our
prospecting experience, had a word of polite encouragement, a rash
expression of interest, even a too eager attitude of silent expectancy,
brought the Doctor to a sudden change of subject. Time and time again
have we seen the unwary stranger stand amazed and bewildered between
our own indifference and the sudden termination of a promising
anecdote, through his own unlucky interference. So we said nothing.
"The Judge"--another instance of arbitrary nomenclature--pretended to
sleep. Jack began to twist a cigarrito. Thornton bit off the ends of
pine needles reflectively.

"Yes, sir," continued the Doctor, coolly resting the back of his head
on the palms of his hands, "it WAS rather curious. All except the
murder. THAT'S what gets me, for the murder had no new points, no
fancy touches, no sentiment, no mystery. Was just one of the old
style, 'sub-head' paragraphs. Old-fashioned miner scrubs along on
hardtack and beans, and saves up a little money to go home and see
relations. Old-fashioned assassin sharpens up knife, old style; loads
old flint-lock, brass-mounted pistol; walks in on old-fashioned miner
one dark night, sends him home to his relations away back t