Gho. Why do you doubt your senses?
Scro. Because a little thing affects them. A slight disorder of the stomach makes them cheats. You may be an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of an under-done potato. There's more of gravy than of grave about you, whatever you are. You see this tooth-pick?
Gho. I do.
Scro. You are not looking at it.
Gho. But I see it, notwithstanding.
Scro. Well! I have but to swallow this, and be for the rest of my days persecuted by a legion of gobblins, all of my own creation. Humbug, I tell you; humbug. (Ghost rattles chain, takes bandage off jaws, and drops lower jaw as far as possible.)
Scro. (Betrays signs of fright.) Mercy! dreadful apparition, why do you trouble me?
Gho. Man of the worldly mind, do you believe in me, or not?
Scro. I do. I must. But why do spirits walk the earth, and why do they come to me?