“Hold Tom's hand. Wait for Tom,” babbled the ghostly voice, a thin, distant sound.
“What'd he say? What'd he say?” Kelly was white and trembling.
Harding stood up and rubbed his chin reflectively. He did not seem to himself to make it out. He brought a chair, sat down, and leaned close to Conlon to study the matter.
“What's the heart-scald, mother?” babbled Conlon. “Where'd ye get it from? Me! Wirra!”
“'Tis spheakin' to ghosteses he is, Simmy, ye take me worrd.”
“Come off! He's harking back when he was a kid.”
Kelly shook his head solemnly.
“He's spheakin' to ghosteses.”
“What's that, mother? Arra! I'm sick, mother. What for? I don' see. Where'm I goin'?'
“You got me,” muttered Harding. “I don' know.”