“Well, I will. It looks more comfortable than this straight-backed one,” and she settled down heavily on the faded calico cushion, while I shivered with horror.
If the ghost in the red shirt returned—well, Aunt Jane is one of the screaming sort.
We sat quiet a long time, it seemed to me. I was just wondering if I dared lean my head against Clifford and take a nap when I felt his arm tighten warningly. I looked, and there was the ghost gliding up to the chair, his lustreless eyes fixed upon the fire as before.
Jack turned and saw it, and grew white. He can’t convince me he wasn’t scared, for he looked it.
I stared, horrified. I tried to cry out, but before I could limber my tongue (it felt so dry and helpless) the ghost reached the chair and—sat right down upon Aunt Jane! He really did! She stirred a little and shivered.
“Throw more wood on the fire, Jack,” she said, “I feel chilly.”
Chilly! Good Heaven, I think we all did! Even Jack’s splendid nerve was shaken at sight of his own mother dandling that Thing upon her knees.
“Mother!” he cried, and his voice sounded hoarse (for a fellow that wasn’t scared), “for God’s sake, move!”
Well, there’s a gap in the story here that I can’t fill.
The next I remember Aunt Jane was fanning me with Mabel’s sailor-hat, and Jack stood by with an old tomato-can full of water which leaked a stream almost, and he looking very sober. The Professor was rubbing his hands together and saying, “Lord bless my soul!” over and over. I hate that man!