As Gizzard sank back weakly, voices were heard in the gallery below.
"How many is there?" asked a hoarse grating voice that they both recognized as Elder Jones's.
"They's a number of 'em all right," replied the sexton. "Look at how they ringed that bell! I can't ring it like that myself, and I been practicin' on it for nigh thirty year! They must be half a dozen of 'em, at least!"
"Well, they can't get down till we put the ladder back; but you better wait here and watch for 'em while I step over to my house and 'phone for an officer. I won't be gone long."
And Elder Jones tramped out with a very determined tread emphasized at each alternate step by an equally determined rap from his cane.
Hank Morley sat down on the top step of the gallery stairs, his trusty lantern beside him. From his coat pocket he produced a fragrant Missouri meerschaum, and although smoking was strictly forbidden in the church, he felt that he was entitled to certain indulgences, and accordingly filled and lighted it. He had taken only a few puffs when he heard a noise behind him and glanced casually back over his shoulder. Instantly the glance became a stare that was far from casual, for, floating in mid-air between the floor and the ceiling he beheld two white figures that sailed back and forth gracefully and seemed to have no difficulty in navigating the thin air.
HE BEHELD TWO WHITE FIGURES
Hank did not wait to take a second look. He had seen enough. Why tarry? With one frantic bound he cleared the stairs. With another he crossed the vestibule, and with a third he reached the middle of the street. A few moments later he was in Hennessey & O'Brien's saloon calling hoarsely for alcoholic aid.
"Say, ol' Hank's got a fine start for the Fourth," the barkeep murmured confidentially to his employer a few moments later. "When a feller begins to see ghosts, it's time to cut it out."