The doctor opened the paper he held in his hand and read:
“The Rebel General Eastworth.—The report of the death of this notorious leader is undoubtedly well founded. The Reverend Doctor Robinson, returned from Charleston under a flag of truce, confirms the tale. On the morning of the twelfth instant General Eastworth, while riding along the eastern defences of the city, was instantly killed by a shell from one of our gun-boats.”
“There,” said the doctor, folding up the paper—“what do you think of that?”
No one answered. Every one seemed dumb-foundered.
Old Bob was the first to break the silence. Seeing amazement on every face, he gasped out:
“Wha—wha—wha—wha—what does all dat mean?”
“It means that you let in a ghost, Uncle Bob!” exclaimed Elfie, mischievously.
“Wha—wha—wha—what ghost?” stammered the old man, with chattering teeth, starting eyes, and ashen cheeks.
“The ghost of the Rebel General Eastworth, who was killed in Charleston,” said Elfie.
“Oh, my Lor’! my Lor’! my Lor’! I’m a dead nigger!” exclaimed old Bob, with all the superstitious terrors of his race strong upon him.