“If it ain’t a ghost, what is it?” demanded Reddy, hoarsely.
“That’s just what we’re goin’ t’ find out,” answered Jack, and started forward, resolutely.
Allan went with him, but Reddy kept discreetly in the rear. He was no coward,—he was as brave as any man in facing a danger which he knew the nature of,—but all the superstition of his untutored Irish heart held him back from this unearthly apparition.
As they drew near, its lines became more clearly defined; it was undoubtedly of human shape, but apparently it had no head, only a pair of short, stubby arms, which waved wildly in the air, and a pair of legs that danced frantically. Near at hand it was even more terrifying than at a distance, and their pace grew slower and slower, while Reddy stopped short where he was, his teeth chattering, his eyes staring. They could hear what seemed to be a human voice proceeding from the figure, raised in a sort of weird incantation, now high, now low. Was it really a ghost? Allan asked himself; was it really the spirit of the poor fellow whose life had been crushed out a few weeks before? could it be....
“NEAR AT HAND IT WAS EVEN MORE TERRIFYING THAN AT A DISTANCE”
Suddenly Jack laughed aloud with relief, and hurried forward.
“Come on,” he called. “It’s no ghost!”
And in a moment Allan saw him reach the figure and pull the white garment down over its head, disclosing a flushed and wrathful, but very human, face.
“Thankee, sir,” said a hoarse voice to Jack. “A lady in th’ house back there give me a clean shirt, an’ I was jest puttin’ it on when I got stuck in th’ durn thing, an’ couldn’t git it either way. I reckon I’d ’a’ suffocated if you hadn’t come along!”