“Got a good one. A regular ghosty one. Up to the house where I’m livin’ now.”
“What’s that? Don’t swell so with pride, aristocrat!”
“Who’s a-swelling? If you don’t want it, never mind. I ain’t suffering to give it away. Don’t know as Miss Lucy’d like it, any way.”
It was rather late in the affair to think about that, however, and Towsley put the possibility out of mind; or, with the true spirit of newspaper enterprise, decided that private considerations should give precedence to the public good. Yet what possible good the mysterious ringing of an electric bell was to do the “public” it would be difficult to say.
“Come, you rising young journalist! Give it out. Wouldn’t go back on your own paper, would you?”
Whereupon, Towsley related his modern ghost story, with such embellishments as a very lively fancy could furnish; and the active reporter took it down verbatim. After which he tossed his “copy” to an office boy and put on his hat and top-coat.
“Come on, Tows. I’ll go up with you and see the thing for myself.”
“It’s just as I said,” remarked the lad, proudly.
“I’m not denying it. But if I can make two paragraphs go where one would do, you’re not the boy to hinder me, I suppose,” answered the other.
The cars had resumed their regular running, and the pair boarded one; but when they left it at the corner of the Avenue where Miss Lucy lived, the reporter looked about him and whistled.