“‘Beamish!’ says the ghost, smacking his lips.
“‘The same,’ says my father; ‘and sure what’s happened you has not spoiled your taste.’
“‘If you’d mix a little hot,’ says the ghost, ‘I’m thinking it would be better,—the night is mighty sevare.’
“‘Anything that your reverance pleases,’ says my father, as he began to blow up a good fire to boil the water.
“‘And what news is stirring?’ says the ghost.
“‘Devil a word, your reverance,—your own funeral was the only thing doing last week. Times is bad; except the measles, there’s nothing in our parts.’
“‘And we’re quite dead hereabouts, too,’ says the ghost.
“‘There’s some of us so, anyhow, says my father, with a sly look. ‘Taste that, your reverance.’
“‘Pleasant and refreshing,’ says the ghost; ‘and now, Mr. Free, what do you say to a little “spoilt five,” or “beggar my neighbor”?’
“‘What will we play for? ‘says my father, for a thought just struck him,—‘may be it’s some trick of the Devil to catch my soul.’