miss, if you are an
object when you go to bed to-night!"

With this curious introductory speech he began to read. I was obliged
to interrupt him to say the few words of explanation which the story
needed.

"Before my brother begins," I said, "it may be as well to mention that
he is himself the doctor who is supposed to relate this narrative. The
events happened at a time of his life when he had left London, and had
established himself in medical practice in one of our large northern
towns."

With that brief explanation, I apologized for interrupting the reader,
and Morgan began once more.

BROTHER MORGAN'S STORY of THE DEAD HAND

WHEN this present nineteenth century was younger by a good many years
than it is now, a certain friend of mine, named Arthur Holliday,
happened to arrive in the town of Doncaster exactly in the middle of the
race-week, or, in other words, in the middle of the month of September.

He was one of those reckless, rattle-pated, open-hearted, and
open-mouthed young gentlemen who possess the gift of familiarity in its
highest perfection, and who scramble carelessly along the journey of
life, making friends, as the phrase is, wherever they go. His father was
a rich manufacturer, and had bought landed property enough in one of
the midland counties to make all the born squires in his neighborhood
thoroughly envious of him. Arthur was his only son, possessor in
prospect of the great estate and the great business after his father's
death; well supplied with money, and not too rigidly looked after during
his father's lifetime. Report, or scandal, whichever you please, said
that the old gentleman had been rather wild in his youthful days, and
that, unlike most parents, he was not disposed to be violently indignant
when he found that his son took after him. This may be true or not. I
myself only knew the elder Mr. Holliday when he was getting on in years,
and then he was as quiet and as respectable a gentleman as ever I met
with.

Well, one September, as I told you, young Arthur comes to Doncaster,
having decided all of a sudden, in his hare-brained way, that he would
go to the races. He did not reach the town till toward the close of
evening, and he went at once to see about his dinner and bed at the
principal hotel. Dinner they were ready enough to give him, but as for a
bed, they laughed when he mentioned it. In the race-week at Doncaster
it is no uncommon thing for visitors who have not