She wanted to
ask me how I enjoyed the night, but I would not gratify her by
volunteering a word. “My host was more outspoken. “‘Reckon ye didn’t get much sleep,’ said he, with a queer smile. “‘Did you hear anything?’ I asked. “‘Well, I did--ye-es,’ he said, with a drawl. ‘But ye didn’t disturb me
any. I knew ye’d hev trouble when ye went in thet room ter sleep.’

“That afternoon I slipped out to the tree. But to my amazement I found
that the twig I had broken from the branches was gone. Finally I found
under the lower trunk of an apple tree an open place from which a small
branch had evidently been wrested. But on looking further, I discovered
that every apple tree in the orchard had been similarly disfigured. “‘More mysterious than ever,’ I said; ‘but to-night shall decide.’

“That night I pleaded weariness, which no one seemed inclined to
question, and sought my couch earlier. “‘Goin’ ter try it again?’ asked my host. “‘Yes; and I’ll stay all winter but what I’ll get even with that ghost,’
I said. “That night I kept the candle burning until midnight, when I blew it
out. “Instantly the room was flooded with a soft light, and at the foot of
the bed stood my ghost, the identical ghost of last night. “Again the bony finger beckoned and a sepulchral voice whispered,
‘Follow me!’ I sprang from the bed, but the figure darted ahead of me. It flew through the doorway and down the stairs, and I after it. At the
foot of the staircase an unseen hand reached forward and caught my foot
and I fell sprawling headlong. “But in a second I was on my feet and pursuing the ghost. It had gained
on me a few yards, but I was quicker, and just as we reached the outside
door I nearly touched its robes. They sent a chill through my frame, and
I nearly gave up the pursuit. “As it passed through the doorway it turned and gave me one look, and I
caught the same malignant light in its eyes that I remembered from the
night before. “In the open orchard I felt sure I could catch it. “But my ghost had no intention of allowing me any such opportunity. To
my disgust, it darted backward and into the house, slamming the door in
my face. “In my frenzy of fear and chagrin I threw myself against the oaken door
with such force that its rusty old hinges yielded and I landed in the
big front room of the inn just in time to see the white skirts of the
ghost flit up the stairs. “Upstairs I flew after it, and into an old chamber. There, huddled in a
corner, I saw it. In the minute’s delay it had secured a lighted candle
and, as I entered, it advanced to daunt me with bony arm upraised to a
great height. “‘Caught!’ I cried, throwing my arms around the figure. And I had made
the acquaintance of a real live ghost. “The white robes fell, and I saw revealed my hostess of Buckstown Inn. “Next morning, when I threatened to call the police, she confessed to me
that she masqueraded as a ghost to draw visitors to the out-of-the-way
old place, and that she found its tale of being haunted highly
profitable to her.”




THE BURGLAR’S GHOST. I am not an imaginative man, and no one who knows me can say that I have
ever indulged in sentimental ideas upon any subject. I am rather
predisposed, in fact, to look at everything from a purely practical
standpoint, and this quality has been further developed in me by the
fact that for twenty years I have been an active member of the detective
police force at Westford, a large town in one of our most important
manufacturing districts. A policeman, as most people will readily
believe, has to deal with so much practical life that he has small
opportunity for developing other than practical qualities, and he is
more apt to believe in tangible things than in ideas of a somewhat
superstitious nature. However, I was once under the firm conviction that
I had been largely helped up the ladder of life by the ghost of a once
well-known burglar. I have told the story to many, and have heard it
commented upon in various fashions. Whether the comments were satirical
or practical, it made no difference to me; I had a firm faith at that
time in the truth of my tale. Eighteen years ago I was a plain clothes officer at Westford. I was then
twenty-three years of age, and very anxious about two matters. First and
foremost I desired promotion; second, I wished to be married. Of course
I was more eager about the second than the first, because my sweetheart,
Alice Moore, was one of the prettiest and cleverest girls in the town;
but I put promotion first for the simple reason that with me promotion
must come before marriage. Knowing this, I was always on the lookout for
a chance of distinguishing myself, and I paid such attention to my
duties that my superiors began to notice me, and foretold a successful
career for me in the future. One evening in the last week of September, 1873, I was sitting in my
lodgings wondering what I could do to earn the promotion which I so
earnestly wished for. Things were quiet just then in Westford, and I am
afraid I half wished that something dreadful might occur if I only could
have a share in it. I was pursuing this train of thought when I suddenly
heard a voice say, “Good evening, officer.”

I turned sharply around. It was almost dusk and my lamp was not lighted. For all that, I could see clearly enough a man who was sitting by a
chest of drawers that stood between the door and the window. His chair
stood between the drawers and the door, and I concluded that he had
quietly entered my room and seated himself before addressing me. “Good evening!” I replied. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

He laughed when I said that--a low, chuckling, rather sly laugh. “No,”
he said, “I dessay not, officer. I’m a very quiet sort of person. You
might say, in fact, noiseless. Just so.”

I looked at him narrowly, feeling considerably surprised and astonished
at his presence. He was a thickly built man, with a square face and
heavy chin. His nose was small, but aggressive; his eyes were little and
overshadowed by heavy eyebrows; I could see them twinkle when he spoke. As for his dress, it was in keeping with his face. He wore a rough suit of woolen or frieze; a thick, gayly colored Belcher
neckerchief encircled his bull-like throat, and in his big hands he
continually twirled and twisted a fur cap, made apparently out of the
skin of some favorite dog. As he sat there smiling at me and saying
nothing, it made me feel uncomfortable. “What do you want with me?” I asked. “Just a little matter o’ business,” he answered. “You should have gone to the office,” I said. “We’re not supposed to do
business at home.”

“Right you are, guv’nor,” he replied; “but I wanted to see you. It’s you
that’s got to do my job. If I’d ha’ seen the superintendent he might
ha’ put somebody else on to it. That wouldn’t ha’ suited me. You see,
officer, you’re young, and nat’rally eager-like for promotion. Eh?”

“What is it you want?” I inquired again. “Ain’t you eager to be promoted?” he reiterated.