“‘A pint of Beamish,’ says the ghost.
“‘Done!’ says my father; ‘cut for deal. The ace of clubs,—you have it.’
“Now the whole time the ghost was dealing the cards, my father never took his eyes off of him, for he wasn’t quite aisy in his mind at all; but when he saw him turn up the trump, and take a strong drink afterwards, he got more at ease, and began the game.
“How long they played it was never rightly known; but one thing is sure, they drank a cruel deal of sperits. Three quart bottles my father brought with him were all finished, and by that time his brain was so confused with the liquor, and all he lost,—for somehow he never won a game,—that he was getting very quarrelsome.
“‘You have your own luck to it,’ says he, at last.
“‘True for you; and besides, we play a great deal where I come from.’
“‘I’ve heard so,’ says my father. ‘I lead the knave, sir; spades! Bad cess to it, lost again!’
“Now it was really very distressing; for by this time, though they only began for a pint of Beamish, my father went on betting till he lost the hearse and all the six horses, mourning cloaks, plumes, and everything.
“‘Are you tired, Mr. Free? May be you’d like to stop?’
“‘Stop! faith it’s a nice time to stop; of course not.’