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M'Whiskers, whom I met at Oban, were very jolly old people. Papa M'Whisker had made a big fortune teaplanting in Ceylon, and had bought, and added to Dramdotty Castle in the far, far north. They were perfectly full of ghosts and spiritualism, and at Dramdotty they seemed to have a ghost for every day in the week. On Monday there was the "Spotted Nun," on Tuesday the "Floating Infant," on Wednesday the "Headless Dwarf," on Thursday the "Vanishing Nigger," on Friday the "Burnt Lady," and on Saturday the "Human Balloon," and on Sunday the whole lot attended on them, and, I daresay, went to the kirk with them.

M'Whisker himself was a jovial soul, fond of his toddy, and very much resembled the Dougal Cratur in "Rob Roy." My friend, John Clyde, should have seen him. He had a furious red head of hair and beard of the same colour, and the street boys used to call after him the song, "The folks all call me Carroty, What, what, what, oh! Carroty," etc. Mrs M'Whisker was a stout lady with eyes like small tomatoes and a gimlet nose. They had a son, a boy of ten, called Fernando M'Whisker, because he was born in Spain. When they came to St Andrews they had purchased a number of my "Ghost Books." (These ghosts at present chiefly haunt the Citizen Warehouse, book-sellers' shops, and the railway bookstall.) That is the reason perhaps that the M'Whiskers invited me to a spiritualistic seance at their house in South Street. They generally came to St Andrews for the winter, partly to get away from the cold of their northern home, and partly because they thought the history and atmosphere of St Andrews lent itself to an all-pervading presence of ghosts, spooks, and spirits. I had only been to two such shows before—one at Helensburgh and one at Cambridge—and was, and still am, very doubtful of the genuineness of spiritualism. On the day appointed I went to the M'Whiskers' house