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 table. But sometimes one's fantastically jaded nerves think they have found the blunder in language, the fault in science. Ghosts or no ghosts—if you thought you saw one, would n't it be just as bad? My eyes strained out into the darkness. Suppose—I—should--think—that I heard the bark of a dog? Suppose—suppose—that from that black shed door where the automobile used to live, I should think—even that I saw the Blue Serge Man come stumbling with a lantern? The black shed door burst open with a bang-bangbang, and I screamed, jumped, snatched a blanket, and fled for the lamp-lighted hall.

A little dazzled by the sudden glow, I shrank back in alarm from a figure on the top stair. It was the Pretty Lady. Wrapped clumsily like my self in a big blanket, she sat huddled there with the kerosene lamp close beside her, mending the Blue Serge Man's cap. On the step below her, smothered in a soggy lavender comforter, crouched Alrik's Old Mother, her dim eyes brightened uncannily with superstitious excitement. I was evidently a welcome addition to the party, and the old woman cuddled me in like a meal-sack beside her.

"Naw one could sleep a night like this," she croaked.

"Sleep?" gasped the Pretty Lady. Scorn infinite was in her tone.